


walking the falling cities

by Kalgalen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (the desolation crew is in the place babey), Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Canon-Typical Violence, Literal Burn, M/M, Sleeping Beauty Elements, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2019-08-30 01:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16755625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/pseuds/Kalgalen
Summary: Driven by a desire to prove himself, Martin had left the safety of the city and hiked to the old tower in the forest. There was a monster asleep there: the terrible Archivist, with many eyes and many questions.The plan was to kill it - but plans rarely go as expected, and Martin finds himself in the middle of a centuries-old struggle by the side of a creature more human than he could have ever expected.





	1. a vision of silver

**Author's Note:**

> "hey mer what did you do with your weekend?" oh, you know. tried coming up with a sleeping beauty AU for a horror podcast, as one do.
> 
> (shoutout to charlie ([possessedradios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/possessedradios)/[shortwaveattentionspan](https://shortwaveattentionspan.tumblr.com/)) for being a terrible enabler ❤️)

The tower stood crooked and mossy in the middle of the forest. It blended in the background of giant trees surrounding it, though this could be blamed on the shade cast by the thick foliage overhead; if he hadn't known where to look, Martin would have most likely missed it.

Burnished leaves and dry twigs cracked under his boots as he stops at the edge of the narrow clearing, and Martin took a moment to take the scene in. He breathed in, tasting the smell of decaying vegetation on his tongue. The piece of architecture looming in front of him was dull and unremarkable; no one would suspect it of sheltering a slumbering monster - and yet.

Martin shook the map in his hands, wrestling it into a folded square and slipping it back into his pack. He braced himself before taking a step in direction of the tower, pushing through the anxiety gnawing at his insides, fussing with the dagger strapped to his belt. He hated the idea of hurting inoffensive creatures, but - well, he needed to prove to Elias he could be useful on the field as well. Beside, the Archivist was hardly _inoffensive,_ was it? Nothing wrong in eliminating a potential threat before it was able to hurt anyone again.

Martin tried not to think about why, exactly, no one had killed the sleeping Avatar yet - though if he had to guess, it was because of how revolting slaughtering a defenseless creature was. He wasn't looking for glory, after all - just a bit of respect.

The doorway was, as far as he could tell, the only way into the tower. He noticed that no windows pierced the massive walls, and he allowed himself to be glad for thinking about bringing a torch. He ran a hand over the heavy wood panel, frowning at the absence of any kind of handle that would allow him in; was he supposed to just push it? He tried, but without success; the door remained fast locked as if it was part of the wall itself. Martin huffed with frustration, gave the door another shove, harder this time - then drove his shoulder into it. It might have rusted in place; the humid atmosphere of the forest sure was propitious to that kind of deterioration.

Martin stepped back, glaring at the door, and decided to take a walk around the tower in case he could find any clue on how to open it. He found none, of course; just more the same dour, gray stone the tower was built of. The door seemed to mock him, almost, as he found himself facing it again, and he stood there for a moment, unwilling to admit himself vanquished. He couldn't go back now; the walk there wasn't a short one, and if he could get Sasha and Tim to cover for him for a day, he doubted he could do it again.

"Open....Sesame?" he risked. The owner of the tower was magic, right? It wasn't absurd to think it might open if you pronounced the right sentence in front of it.

Sure enough, it didn't.

"Please?" Martin added, pushing hope into his voice as if it could sway the piece of wood. The door remained closed, and Martin slammed the flat of his hands on it.

"Come on! You're a door, you're supposed to open! What do you want from me? ...Oh."

Martin squinted at the door. it couldn't be that simple, could it? After a second of hesitation, he knocked on it.

The door swung open without a noise.

"Oh," Martin repeated. "Okay. Thank you?"

The door didn’t answer - Martin doubted he could have brought himself to step into the tower if it had. After a fortifying inhale, he gathered his courage, lit his torch with slightly trembling hands, and walked in the building.

The interior was as cold as he'd expected, but he was surprised to find it dry, given how damp the forest itself had been. Martin raised his torch to take a look at the room around the room. He found it filled with books - covering the walls, on the round tables arranged across the space, piled high on the dusty chairs. He brought the light closer to take a look at the titles, careful of not letting the flame reach the old parchment, but didn't recognize any names. He couldn't even read several of them - either because they were written in a foreign language, or because they made his eyes hurt.

Martin shook his head and stepped away from the books; he could always come back to them later, after he'd taken care of the keeper of the tower. At the thought of his mission, he cast a look around the room, searching for a way up. He could see the silhouette of a wooden staircase curling along the wall further ahead, seemingly intact and leading upstair; Martin made his way toward it, weaving around the heavily loaded tables. The steps creaked as he began climbing up, and he cringed, freezing in place. When nothing jumped out from the darkness to devour him, he resumed his progression.

He went up one, two, three floors without noticing anything strange. All he could discern were more books, more papers in disarray, more spilled ink. Melted candles sat there, gathering cobwebs, as if the person who'd lit them had been interrupted in the middle of their research. Martin climbed up another floor. Apart from even more bookshelves, he found glass cases so caked in old dust he could barely see inside. It might have been for the best; any artifact found in an Avatar's possession tended to be too dangerous for simple human beings.

There was still no sign of his target.

There was, however, yet another set of stairs leading to yet another floor, and _how many_ of those did this bloody tower had? It hadn't seemed more than three storeys high from the outside, maybe four if the ceilings had been low. It wasn't the case; they actually stretched high above his head, filled top to bottom with records and novels and journals and whatever else the Archivist had hoarded over the years. This place was deeply wrong, Martin was starting to realize. It felt distended and swollen, buckling under the weight of the words and knowledge filling it, made big and hungry and ready to swallow him whole, should he persist in his quest.

Martin swallowed and clenched his teeth, trying to ignore the intense feeling of unease that had fallen upon him. He could almost feel eyes on him,  waiting for his next move. Waiting to see him turn tail and run.

Waiting for him to _fail._

He wasn't going to give up that easily, though. Martin shrugged off the dread, lifted his chin, and marched toward the waiting staircase.

There wasn't much else to notice on the next three floors as he kept climbing - as long as he ignored the growing cold seeping under his clothes and the feeling of eyes fixed on his back.

He knew he'd reached the last floor because of how _still_ the air around him felt. The roof above was missing a couple of slates, letting rays of muddy light through. Martin could see every speck of dust suspended in the stagnant atmosphere. Similarly to the previous rooms, this one was occupied by a crushing amount of books. Contrary to the others, however, they seemed to follow some semblance of organization, as if the individual who'd lived here had tried to keep their quarter somewhat livable.

Martin's eyes were immediately drawn to the desk set in the center of the room. The beams of light falling from the ceiling were catching the edge of the silhouette slumped in an high-backed chair. It didn't take long for Martin to understand that he'd finally reached his goal.

He lodged his torch in an empty sconce near the door and started walking carefully toward the dusty frame of the Archivist. He could feel his own heart beating loud and fast in his chest as he remembered what he'd heard about the Archivist. Someone had hit the Avatar of the Beholding with a curse, one that had plunged it into so deep a slumber only the purest light could shake it awake - but the Archivist was a monster, and no light could touch it. Expecting it to spring awake and turn those terrifying eyes on him was just Martin's fears talking. There was no chance of if awakening, even if the tower came crumbling down around it. Martin was safe to plunge his blade into its heart, and he wouldn't even have to risk his own life.

Once again, the thought left a taste of ash on his tongue. He was conscious he shouldn't feel pity for a creature who'd vivisect him with no hesitation if it thought it could learn something new, but still - he couldn't help but feel terrible about the whole ordeal.

With every step Martin took toward the motionless form, though, it got harder and harder to remember the sadistic violence that was the characteristic of the monsters. The Archivist didn't _look_ like a monster; he - _it_ , Martin had to remind himself - looked like a human male, barely older than Martin himself. Dust streaked its dark hair. There was an all-too-human crease of concern between its eyebrows, and a strangely endearing pout to the line of its mouth.

Martin drew his blade slowly, still careful of not making a noise - or maybe leaving the Archivist an opportunity to wake up and fight back, he wasn't sure. The more details he noticed about the creature - the pale fingers poked with silver scars and stained with ink, the white strands of hair at its temples, its frail appearance - the more his resolve wavered. What was he about to do? Kill a sleeping man in the hope that it would somehow show his worth? Let Elias make him a murdered, when all he'd ever wanted was being taken more seriously?

He could picture all too well Elias' eyes gliding over him when he'd looked for someone to send out for research last time. _No, not poor Martin, he couldn't find the back of his head if he was given a map! He doesn't know what it's like outside the city! Any avatar would made him their plaything, should they catch him outside of human walls!_

Martin growled, frustrated, and steeled himself. It wouldn't take much - just a confident push of his dagger, right where the Archivist's heart would be if it were human. Then it would be done, and he'd be able to come back home with - something. A proof that he wasn't entirely useless. A trinket taken from the tower.

A defenseless creature's blood on his hands.

He shoved the thoughts aside, and stopped next to the chair. From this close, the Archivist looked like it had simply fallen asleep after too long hours of research - if its chest had been moving, that is. To be honest, Martin wasn't even sure that Avatars needed sleep - not like humans did, in any case. Monsters tended to mimic real people's routine to better hunt them, but he didn't think any of them were actually necessary to their survival.

Martin placed the point of the blade over the Archivist's heart, and he couldn't help but hesitantly run a hand through its messy hair. It felt real, aside from the cloud of dust that rose from it; at the same time, it was unlike anything he'd expected. If monsters usually wore human face, they rarely bothered pushing the disguise to feeling like one. The Archivist deserved better than what was about to happen to it, thought Martin mournfully.

Moved by an unexplainable whim, his fingers still tangled in the dark locks, Martin leaned down and pressed a kiss to the Archivist’s cold brow.  
It was like kissing a statue - smooth and cold and so, so lifeless, and he felt rather silly about the impulse - until he straightened back up, and noticed movement behind the Archivist's eyelids.

Martin stumbled back in a hurry, almost dropping his weapon in the process. The idea of running didn't even cross his mind as he stood there, witnessing the Archivist's crawl back to the waking world. Instead he watched, horror and fascination keeping him glued in place.

As if waking from a long night - and he supposed it was, in a sense - the Archivist took a breath in; Martin held his. The Avatar signed, further disturbing the dust that had settled on it, and it opened its eyes.

It simultaneously went on forever, and lasted but a moment; Martin could see the dark eyes - only two of them - blinking owlishly, deeply set in the gaunt face, but the feeling of being watched increased tenfold. Not the lazy, witnessing gaze he'd been feel on him for a bit, but an inquisitive stare, a greedy one, one that wanted to know - everything. Who he was, what he'd done, what he'd seen - all of his history, all of his loved ones, all of what made him _him_ , taking and _taking_ until all that was left of Martin Blackwood was an empty husk of flesh only fit to be torn apart and discarded in the wind.

The Archivist closed its eyes again - all of them - and started coughing violently, waving its hand in front of its face in an attempt to dissipate the thick blanket of dust. The razor-sharp attention dropped from Martin's shoulders, and he sagged a bit, like a marionette whose wires would have been suddenly severed.

Belatedly, Martin thrusted his blade back up. The Archivist stopped coughing immediately, as if it'd been able to hear, somehow, the wave of terror crashing over Martin. It didn't say anything for a while, simply staring at him with such suspicion in its eyes Martin thought it might not even bother asking questions before it ripped through him. Then, finally, it grated out:

"What the hell?"

"Uh," Martin said eloquently. Admitting he'd come to kill it in its sleep certainly wouldn't go over well - but before he could come up with an acceptable excuse, the Avatar narrowed its eyes at him, and growled:

_"Tell me what you are doing here."_

Its voice - and maybe the way it was looking at him, too - sent shivers down Martin's spine, and he surprised himself by saying the last thing he had wanted to tell.

"I came here to kill you."

He felt his heart stop in his chest; surely that was the end of the line.

Against all expectation, the Archivist did not slay him on the spot. Instead it rose to its feet, slowly, as if certain Martin wouldn't run - and it would have been right to think so, too. Whatever was keeping Martin in place - fear, or curiosity, or the unexpected yet irresistible fascination he felt at this moment - it wasn't letting him go any time soon. More dust fell from the Archivist's austere dark clothes, and a part of Martin's mind thought about how hard it would be to get it all out of the heavy fabric. Did monsters even wash their clothes? Or did they just made dirt disappear with a snap of their fingers? He chastised himself; it really wasn't the time to think about laundry of all things.

The Archivist was frowning, leaning heavily on the table as it blinked - clearing its vision, perhaps. Was it dizzy? It shook its head furiously, grumbling under its breath, and the eyes it turned on Martin clearly showed its impatience now.

"Explain. _Tell me everything."_

Once again, Martin tried to keep his mouth shut - but the words kept spilling out all the same.

"My name's Martin Blackwood, I work at- at the Magnus Institute, for Elias - Elias Bouchard. I heard about you - about the creature in the tower, about the curse, and I thought it would be an opportunity to- to show that I wasn't scared to kill monsters. No one takes me seriously, they think I'm too weak, and I wanted to prove them wrong."

It felt - good, in a way, to say it, even if those were possibly his last words. The Archivist was still staring at him, unblinking and focused.

"And then?" it prompted. "You didn't kill me, and I am awake, which shouldn't be possible. _What happened?"_

Thinking back on his impulse to bend down and kiss the sleeping Avatar, Martin felt his cheeks grow red with embarrassment. He would have pretended to be clueless - if the unyielding tone of the Archivist had given him any choice on the matter.

"I felt pity when I saw you. So lonely and abandoned - and about to be murdered by someone just because they wanted to please their boss... It was unfair. I was sorry it had to be that way. So I kissed you. As a - goodbye, I think."

It was even stranger, having to say it aloud, and Martin looked away with a grimace. He was surprised when he found himself still breathing following the confession, and he risked a glance to the Archivist. The creature was - surprisingly enough - not looking at him either, instead staring down at its hands. It was hard to tell with the distance and the lack of light, but it seemed like it was - blushing?

"I- it was on the forehead!" said Martin hastily, just in case he'd somehow managed to make things uncomfortable for the monster he'd come to kill. "I didn't kiss you on the lips or anything, if that's what you're worried about!"

The Archivist's eyes snapped back to him, and it definitely was flustered now - though it was hard to say if it was because of the kiss, or because of the insinuation that it had been flustered by the mention of kissing in the first place.

It was - Martin tried not to think and failed - actually adorable.

"I am not- worried!" it protested with strength, but unconvincingly. "I don't care how it-" It stopped in its tracks, dropped its gaze again, now visibly fazed. "It's fine. I don't- I don't mind. You woke me up."

"I woke you up."

"Okay."

"Okay."

They stood in silence for some amount of time. Martin sheathed his dagger back in, feeling like keeping it pointed at the Archivist would only make things more awkward. The creature obviously had more important matters to take care of.

"Well," he said after what he judged to be a sufficient amount of time. "I should- I should probably get going, then." And, since he'd been raised well, he added clumsily: "It was - nice meeting you?"

The Archivist grunted an acknowledgement and Martin started slinking toward the stairs - until its voice rose again, freezing him in his tracks.

"Wait. You can't leave."

Martin looked back toward the Archivist, and shuddered. Every last bits of humanity it might have shown so far had vanished, replaced with the surgical coldness that was so particular of the Avatars of the Eye.

"Excuse me?" Martin asked, ready to try and dash down the stairs if it looked like the creature had finally decided to eat him. The Archivist pushed away from the desk and started approaching on wobbly legs; Martin realized, belatedly, that what he'd taken for deliberate languidness was more likely sleepy weakness wearing away.

"You said you worked for Elias, didn't you?" it asked, its eyes narrowed and angry. Martin swallowed, checked how many steps it would take for him to reach the stairs, and nodded.

"Yes."

"He took control of the Institute, then. I see. Who is the current monarch?"

"Uh, Queen Nikola? Orsinov? She's been ruling for fifteen years now, though, it's nothing new."

The Archivist glared at him, stopping in front of him.

"I _have_ been asleep for fifteen years."

It wasn't hard to make the connection, even for Martin. Still, it didn't explain any of it either.

"So you - were cursed at the time of Nikola's coup? What happened?"

"I told her no, is what happened." The Archivist brushed past Martin and started going down the stairs, still speaking. Martin grabbed the flickering torch still burning on the wall and followed it. "See, I think you humans are interesting. Diverse. _Rich._ Always looking for new experiences, new things to learn, new things to feel. Monsters aren't like that. All they care about is feeding and finding new ways to torture fear out of your people and, believe it or not, it gets quite old after a couple of centuries. So when Nikola managed to wrangle our peers in a semblance of alliance, to take control of a human kingdom and ultimately... I am unsure of what her endgame was. Spreading to the rest of the world, I imagine. In any case, I elected to stay out of it. Not that I should have been expected to act, anyway; my role is to observe and archive, not to go to war."

The Avatar's steps appeared to be more and more assured as they climbed back down the tower. Martin was almost sure some of the floors they were going through weren't there on his way up. He definitely wasn't going to ask, but he decided to walk a bit more briskly as not to lose sight of the Archivist.

"Wait, wait," he interrupted, confused. "Nikola? Are you saying Queen Nikola is one of you?"

The Archivist threw him an irritated glance.

"Of course. Have you not noticed anything strange? It's been fifteen years, surely the country is already showing signs of strain. Are there talks of civil war yet? Famine? Brutal and unpredictable strings of murders?" Martin didn't answer, and the Archivist let out a bitter laugh. "Yes. That is what I thought."

"What does Elias have to do with this?" Martin asked numbly - though he already had a good enough idea of the answer.

"He thought joining her forces would be a good idea. He's been so hellbent on merely observing in the past, and all of a sudden he decided he had to play the game too. For - power, maybe. Or curiosity. It doesn't matter. Our interests diverged, and he got _scared...!"_ The Archivist spat the word into the darkness in front of them as if it was going to relay the message to its intended recipient. "He thought I would fight back because of my personal interest in humanity, so he sent the End to - disable me."

"Couldn't he have just killed you?"

The Archivist paused in the middle of the flight of stairs, and Martin only just managed not to collide into it.

"He could have, yes," it said pensively, rubbing at the stubble on its jaw. "He had plans, I'm sure. He always has many of those."

It started again down the stairs without warning, humming to itself like a giant bee.

"So, wait, is Elias an Avatar too? It- he... he looks so human."

"Oh, does he? He's become a better actor since I last saw him, then."

They finally reached the ground floor, and the Archivist grabbed a large piece of black drape Martin hadn't even noticed hanging by the door. It wrapped it around its shoulders, closing it with a silver clasp at its neck. The light from Martin's torch reflected off the metal, and he could clearly see it was fashioned to look like a wide-open eye - of course.

"Why tell me all this?" Martin questioned as the Archivist pushed the door, which opened on the outside with an upsetting lack of protest. The flame Martin held danced in the Archivist's eyes as it stared at him with severity - and, maybe, an additional hint of remorse.

"Because Elias will know you broke the spell, and he won't like it. You have to disappear."

"Oh." Martin gaped for a few seconds, taking in the implications of it. The Archivist was telling him to leave his house, his friends, his mother - his whole life. "I- What am I supposed to do, then?"

The Archivist's expression softened even more, and it shrugged.

"Well, I have to hide as well. We could - we could travel together for a bit. If you were amenable to travel with...someone like me."

It looked almost shy, looking somewhere left of Martin's head, worrying the edge of its cloak between its hands. Martin barely hesitated before answering:

"Of course! I'd be happy to, actually, I don't have much experience in being on the run from my demon supervisor who might want to kill me, to be honest."

The Archivist looked like it was fighting off smile, but it turned away and walked out of the tower before Martin could be sure of it.

"It's settled, then! Martin, right?"

Martin joined it outside - joined _him_ in the cold atmosphere of the forest slipping into the night. If they were going to be on a first name basis, Martin might as well start to think of him as an actual person.

"Yes! And how should I- should I call you 'Archivist'?"

The Archivist shook his head, taking a moment to breathe in the fresh air; it had to be a nice change from the musty, dusty one in the tower.

"A name would be more practical," he said, and he looked at Martin with eyes so sharp it looked like he was weighting his soul. He must have been satisfied with the result, because he nodded to himself, and thrusted a hand in Martin's direction. "You can call me Jon."

Martin took the hand - dry as paper but warming up by the second - and shook it with a smile.

"Nice to meet you, Jon," he said, and this time he knew he meant it.

He was almost sure Jon did, too.


	2. the burial of the dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The witch in the forest has tea and biscuits if you have a good story to tell her.

They made their way toward the edge of the forest and into sparser woodland, then on a grassy path; the thick foliage of the trees gave way to a darkening sky and faded stars half hidden behind flimsy clouds. They hadn't talked about their plans yet. Martin was still reeling under the Archivist's revelations, so many questions to ask he wouldn't even know where to start. Besides, Jon looked like he knew where he was going.

Among all the questions spinning in Martin's mind, one in particular kept coming back. It was certainly the most innocent he could ask, yet he wasn't sure it would be welcomed.

He lasted half an hour before cracking, pushed by the lingering silence.

"Why _Jon,_ then?"

The Archivist threw him a surprised glance; his eyes shone like twin coins in the dim light.

"What do you mean?"

"Why pick Jon as your name? Is there any reason for it?"

Jon blinked at him, looking baffled - and somewhat uncomfortable.

"That's- because it's my name? The one my parents gave me? Names still work that way, don't they?"

"You had parents?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"I didn't know monsters did!"

Jon came to a halt, peering at him from under the hood of his cloak.

"You don't know how- how monsters are made?"

Martin shrugged, suddenly very self-conscious about the gaps in his knowledge.

"It's a bit hard to get answers from something- some _one_ who wants to kill you. There are some statements in the archives regarding - uh, people turning, or infested, or possessed by entities, but - we don't know much."

"I -" Jon sighed, his shoulders dropping a bit as he looked away. "I wasn't always like this. I was human once, Martin. That's how monsters are made - born from fear, or anger, or greed. Our gods call to us because they see what is in our heart, and we answer - more or less wittingly. In any case, we bring our own fate on ourselves."

"Oh." All of a sudden, the sheer humanity he could see in Jon - even behind the strange, luminous pupils, under the analytic stare - made a lot more sense. Then, on automatism, he said: "I'm sorry."

Jon shrugged, and started walking again, more brisk now.

"Don't be. I'm not."

"Don't you ever regret it?" Martin asked, running to catch up to him - though he knew he really, really should have just dropped it.

"I might have once." Jon looked like he'd rather talk about anything else. "It doesn't matter anymore. I can't go back."

Because Martin obviously had lost his self-preservation instincts along the way, he ventured:

"Would you? If you could?"

Jon stopped dead in his tracks again, turning to face Martin. He was shorter than Martin, but the fact he had to look up to glare at him did nothing to lessen its effect.

"I said, it does not matter! What is done is done. Let it go."

A wave of fear hit Martin as he was suddenly reminded that even if the being in front of him looked human - even if he had been - he definitely was not anymore. He risked a bit more than a scolding if he pushed Jon too far. The Archivist hadn't been as dangerous than he'd previously thought, but it didn't mean he should forget about what he was - something that drew strength from people's terrors.

Martin dropped his gaze. "Sorry."

Jon huffed, and turned away. "It's fine. Let's just not talk about that again."

They traveled a few more minutes, in complete silence save from the chirps of insects and the cries of nocturnal birds. A thick fog was starting to rise. Martin's torch was flickering, burning the last of the pitch and threatening to go out with every draft. Jon didn't seem bothered by the dimming light, stepping over obstacles Martin would have missed with only the weak flame of the torch to guide him. For a moment, he thought to ask Jon if becoming a monster had improved his vision - but it seemed to be a sore subject, so he abandoned the idea.

"Where are we going?" he asked instead.

Jon looked over his shoulder, his eyes catching the light in a way that shouldn't have been possible in the dying flame.

"Someone I know lives near here. We are going to stop at hers for the night, figure out where we should go next. Careful, here's a root."

Martin tripped on said root before he could process the information. The torch slipped from his grip, landing in the wet grass - where it immediately extinguished. He swore.

"Sh-shoot, wait a second."

The last shreds of sunlight on the horizon were just enough for him to perceive the torch among the weeds. He blindly searched for the lighter in his pack, and tried lighting up the torch again.

The sodden rag refused to catch.

He persisted, feeling Jon's patient gaze on him as he fumbled with the lighter - but soon he had to surrender to the evidence: the torch wouldn't ignite again.

"Sorry about that," he sighed. "I should have taken an oil lamp instead, I didn’t think I’d be out so late. I'll- I'm going to try and find a piece of wood."

"I doubt you'll find anything dry enough around here."

"Oh." Martin wasn't overly fond of the idea of stumbling in the dark with only the vague shape of the Archivist to guide him, but - what else was he supposed to do? He shook his head. "I'll manage with the moonlight, then. Lead the way."

Jon was looking at him still, eyes as bright as freshly-minted pence, and Martin stopped breathing - though why exactly, he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was because he was feeling like a child lost in a forest full of monsters. Perhaps it was that, despite the unsettling stare and the scars and the sternness of the man next to him, Martin couldn't help but think of him as beautiful.

Finally, after a silence that felt like it lasted forever, he felt a hand slip into his own, and Jon started tugging him along.

"I can't have you trip the whole way to Georgie's," he said as a way of explanation, keeping his gaze firmly on the path ahead.

Martin squeezed his fingers, silently thankful, and followed.

* * *

Martin wasn't scared of the dark.

He was not. Not because he clung to the absurd belief that there wasn't anything out there, prowling in the dark, out to get him. Martin wasn't a child, and he knew of the demons that thrived in the shadows, of the things that might be watching him, waiting, circling right on the edge of his vision for the best moment to strike, to tear apart his sanity and his flesh alike, to feed on him until all that remained were a puddle of blood and a few shards of bone -

Maybe Martin _was_ scared of the dark, after all.

Jon's hand in his helped a little. It felt human, for the most part, though the skin had the texture of paper. It also lacked some of the weight and density of a human hand - but it was warm, assured and reassuring. He wasn't alone, and it was all that mattered.

The irony that he was happier traveling with a monster he'd just met rather than on his own wasn't lost on him.

He was dying to ask questions about their destination - who was this Georgie, how could she help, what were they going to do, afterward? Maybe Jon's offer to travel together only extended to the next morning. What was Martin going to do afterward? What could he do? All of his life was behind him, fading with every step. He had to warn Sasha and Tim, for sure. He'd have to send them a letter, and hope it wouldn't be intercepted. He'd give them a rendezvous point, and he'd talk about what he'd found out. Jon could explain, if he stuck around. And then - well, Martin wasn't sure. They could hardly try to overthrow Nikola; they probably couldn't come after Elias, either. All that left them to do was, perhaps, to send a convincing letter to people who could do something about it, and lay low until somebody did something. Not the bravest plan, granted - but they weren't fighters.

Martin would have asked Jon what he thought of all of this - he looked like someone who knew things, the way muscular persons looked like they could lift heavy objects - if he hadn't been so worried that idle chat might make them miss any suspicious noise. His vision wouldn't be of much help; the clouds had swelled, becoming almost opaque, and the only sign that there was even a moon in the sky was the blurry crescent above them. The fog only made things worse. All he could rely on was his hearing, and even that was unreliable at best; every branch snapping, each rustle in the high grass could be a predator about to lunge at them, or simply a nocturnal animal out on its own nocturnal business.

It was quite hard on his nerves, to be honest.

As if feeling his nervousness - and maybe he could, for all Martin knew - Jon squeezed his hand.

"Not too far now," he said, keeping his voice low. "We'll reach Georgie's house in twenty minutes or so. She is waiting for us."

"Is she? ...How?"

Martin felt Jon shrug.

"She has her ways. I'm sure she was waiting for signs of life in the tower. I doubt she was the only one, too - which is why I couldn't let you go back to Elias." He cast a glance at Martin - eyes dimmer, now that there weren't any light to reflect, but still preternaturally bright. Martin's breath caught in his throat. "It wouldn't have done you any good to lie to him about your little outing; I'm sure he's been looking over me quite well."

The way he spat the words out surprised Martin, and he found himself wondering, once again, what exactly had happened all those years ago. He was, however, fairly sure Jon wouldn't answer if he tried asking.

"Okay," he said instead. Then: "I trust you."

The confession surprised Martin himself. There was no way of knowing for sure in the darkness, but Jon's silence felt astonished - perhaps a bit frightened, even.

The Archivist remained silent, yet his unspoken response was loud in the quiet night air.

_"Maybe you shouldn't."_

* * *

It took a quarter of an hour, as promised, before a house started coming into view in the form of a single light in the darkness. The moment Martin saw it, he could tell Jon had as well by the way his walk became more alert, his eyes brighter as he caught sight of the glow. The image of a moth attracted by a torch came to Martin's mind, but he wisely chose not to share it.

They soon discovered a small cottage nestled in a copse, standing a stone-throw away from the dirt road. It looked welcoming enough, with a small garden surrounded by a clean wooden fence; the little lantern hanging next to the front door was without a doubt the source of the light that had guided them here, though now that they were closer, it didn't look like it could have produced a ray strong enough to pierce through the fog.

As they came closer to the house, the front door opened. The silhouette of a short woman appeared, sharply cut against the bright interior; she crossed her arms, and watched them approach. She didn't talk until they stopped in front of her.

"I'll be damned," she said finally, a smile playing on her lips. "Did Jonathan Sims finally find true love?"

Her gaze drifted down to their still interlocked hands, and Jon snatched his away, flustered.

"Georgie!" he hissed. "I'd be grateful if you did not go and assume things before knowing the facts."

The woman raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"I'm rather curious to learn about those, actually."

Jon glared at her, and Martin felt a bit discomfited at Jon's rebuttal - though why exactly, he couldn't say. Or rather, he could, but it really wasn't the time to examine those feelings.

"I- Listen, can we just- can you let us in?"

Georgie's grin only became more knowing, but she stepped away.

"Be my guests."

Jon stomped into the house, and Martin followed, though considerably more timid. He could feel Georgie's eyes on him as he brushed past her. It was not outwardly hostile, nor was it suspicious - but it was attentive, and cautious, and it made him feel exposed.

The room he discovered around him was at the image of its owner: small, welcoming, simple in a way that conveyed the feeling that it was by choice, and not by a lack of resources. A fire was burning in the heart, and a cat slept in one of the chairs in front of it. On the kitchen table sat a steaming teapot, placed on a tray along three cups and a plate of biscuits.

"You knew we were coming," he said, half-surprised despite the fact that Jon had seemed so sure she would be.

"I told you she did," the Archivist commented, arranging his cloak on the coat-peg near the door.

"How did you know?" he asked Georgie as she closed the door behind them and went to get the tray.

"I have messengers,” she said cryptically. “Your name is Martin, right?” she asked, and he could only nod - another information she’d gotten from her _messengers,_ no doubt. She nodded at the tray in her hands: "I thought you'd be hungry after the walk - and the fifteen-years-long diet. Tea?"

"God, yes, please," Martin breathed. Jon grunted a vague agreement, and they all sat around the fireplace. Georgie had to lift the slumbering cat off her seat. She put it back down on the cushion next to her feet; the cat barely gave a purr of acknowledgment before going back to sleep.

"I see the Admiral is doing well," Jon said, annoyance fading away from his expression as he looked fondly at the cat. Georgie scratched the animal's head, and its left ear flicked.

"Same old Admiral, you know him. As long as he's got food and a warm spot to nap in, he's set." She started pouring tea into the cups and, affecting an innocent expression, segued into: "Speaking of naps - care to tell me what happened?"

Jon frowned and took the cup that was offered to him. He wrapped his hands around the warm clay vessel and breathed in the herbal smell. Then he asked:

"You know about the curse, right? One of your people did it."

"Yeah." Georgie grimaced. "Sorry about that. I did try to help, when I heard about it - but, well. We both know it couldn't have worked. True love's kiss-"

Jon groaned, and although his eyes stayed focused on the content of his cup, Martin suddenly felt stared at.

"It's not about- that was an error in the translation and you know it. There's no true- true love when it comes to counter spells. Love has no place in our world."

"If you say so." Georgie shrugged, and handed Martin a cup of tea, which he took gratefully. "In any case, neither my kiss or my own knowledge of End magic managed to wake you up. Are you quite alright, Martin?"

Martin cleared his throat after half-choking on a mouthful of tea.

"End...?" he managed to say in between coughs. "I thought you were human!"

Georgie and Jon stared at him as if he was an idiot. Then Georgie leaned over, and smacked Jon on the shoulder.

"You didn't tell him? Jonathan, I swear to your god and mine...!" Turning to Martin, she offered him an apologetic smile. "I haven't been human in a while, love. That's why I prefer living away from civilization instead of having to change cities every decade so people don't get suspicious."

"I thought- don't- don't you need to- kill people? I thought it was the entire point of monsters."

Georgie looked at him. Her expression didn't change, still friendly, still kind, but the room around them seemed to drop a few degrees as the flames in the fireplace flickered, reduced to amber in a second. Martin felt frost seeping into his bones, dread looming over him like a tower about to collapse.

"Some people have to die," Georgie said, softly. Her skin seemed to shrink and tarnish, becoming translucent and dry like the embalmed husk of a long-dead being. "My god is hungry, and I provide for it. I stay away from the cities, but the wilderness - this is our domain. Don't go wandering in the woods at night, and old Georgie won't feed you to her children."

Georgie smiled - a wide, too wide smile, the kind of smile that was usually only seen on naked skulls. Martin had made his peace with the fact he was about to die several time that day already, so he simply sat there, frozen like a deer surprised by a hunter.

"Georgie, that's enough."

Jon's voice shattered the ominous silence, and Georgie shook her head, as if waking up from a dream. The fire started back up in the hearth; on his cushion, the Admiral meowed, visibly upset their antics had disturbed his nap.

"I'm- oh I'm sorry for that, Martin." Georgie seemed genuinely contrite; her face and her hands had recovered an healthy, lively glow. Martin forced his fingers to relax their vice-like grip around his cup. "We can only fight against our nature for so long. I'll be more careful."

"No harm done," Martin mumbled on instinct, although he could almost feel his nerves fraying to their last thread.

"...Please, take a biscuit," she offered, pushing the plate in his direction. "Fresh from this morning."

Martin eyed the biscuits suspiciously, trying to decide if he wanted to take his chances with baked goods possibly made of dead people.

"Oh, for God's sake." Jon grabbed a biscuit. "It's only flour, sugar and butter, Martin. No human in there."

Georgie made a noise that sounded a lot like "not today", but Martin decided he was better off not questioning the way people chose to make their biscuits. Accepting hospitality was only polite. He picked a biscuit.

Satisfied, Georgie turned her attention back on Jon.

"So?"

"So what, Georgie?"

"You're here. How did that happen?"

Jon hummed, and his eyes drifted to Martin again, though Martin himself kept his gaze firmly on the contents of his cup. Could the _tea_ have been made out of people?

"The spell was broken. The how and why are still unclear, but the one sure thing is that Elias won't like it. He thought he could - keep me like a trophy, locked in the Archivist's tower, until he found a way to make me agree to his plans. Martin-" and Jon's voice paused here, hesitant. Martin risked a glance up, and he was able to catch the scared expression on Jon's face as he watched Martin, before the Archivist looked away. "Martin works - used to work for him, too. There's no doubt that he's aware of what happened, and you know how much he dislikes having his schemes disturbed."

"I see," Georgie said. "You couldn't let him go back."

"He would have killed him."

"Of course."

Martin would have protested at the fact that he was being discussed as if he wasn't in the room, but something dissuaded him to do so. Perhaps it was the way Jon was anxiously reducing a piece of biscuit to crumbs between his fingers, or the grave, gentle look in Georgie's eyes as she watched her friend sprinkle crumbs all over her carpet in his restlessness.

"Maybe it would be better if we continued this conversation tomorrow," Georgie said finally, setting her still half-full cup on the coffee table. "You two look like you could do with some rest; I'll leave you the bed, I have some business to attend to outside anyway."

Martin felt his cheeks darken at the idea of sharing a bed with the Archivist, but Jon shook his head.

"I slept for fifteen years. I'll be fine. Martin-" Jon's gaze slid over him, once again without stopping. Martin worried he'd done something wrong and hadn't even noticed it - why wouldn't Jon meet his eyes, otherwise? "Get some rest. We might have to start moving again tomorrow."

Georgie got up to show him the bedroom, and Martin followed her, not without casting a last glance behind him at Jon's frail figure in front of the fire. His dark clothes bled into the shadows in a way that gave the impression he could melt into them at any given moment, as if he'd never been here in the first place.

Martin hoped very hard he wouldn't.

The partition between the bedroom and the rest of the house was a simple curtain, as to grant some privacy while ensuring the warmth from the main room would permeate the sleeping quarters. Still, Georgie pulled it closed behind Martin and her before leaning toward him.

"Look," she whispered, so low that Martin had to strain to hear her. "As a rule, I don't trust people who go on wild expeditions to kill monsters, because most of the time those folks are goddamn crazy - or plain morons. Coming for Jon while he was asleep and defenseless doesn't play in your favor either - don't try and deny it, I've been watching, I told you."

If anything, Martin was about to agree and apologize, but Georgie's glare dissuaded him to speak up; he nodded instead. Georgie looked satisfied, and she continued:

"He cares about you, though, for some reason. Probably because you woke him up. He might think he found something special - and don't get me wrong, I really hope he did. But -" she lifted her hand, cupping his jaw. It felt sharp and cold against his skin, like naked bone, and he couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to. "If you betray that trust, I _will_ know it, and I will come for you. Don't think Death is the worst thing that can happen to you."

Then she let go, and the smile was back on her face, as genuine as the threats had been.

"You seem like a good person, though. Maybe he'll finally have his happy ending."

"I...hope he will?" Martin said, dazed and not quite sure of what had gone down - though he was pretty sure he'd just been given The Talk. His life just kept getting stranger.

Georgie stepped away to fluff the pillows and smooth the wool blanket that covered the bed as if nothing had happened. She said, on a normal volume:

"I hope you'll find it to your tastes. It's enough for me, but I'm a witch of the wood, and you're a delicate city dweller."

"Ah- I'm sure it'll be just fine," Martin assured, still confused but lacking the energy to continue the discussion. He'd been up early that day, and most of that time since had been spent walking, either anxious of what he was going to discover in the tower, or worrying about the creatures his not-quite-human boss might have sent after them.

He would never have imagined being able to sleep under the same roof as two Avatars, but - he wouldn't have thought his country being lead by monsters until today, either.

The bed looked too welcoming to resist, anyway.

"Sleep well, Martin," Georgie said as she was about to leave him alone. She hesitated, and cast him a sympathizing look. "It might be the last time you're able to do so in a while."

Then she was gone. Her last words drifted in her place, throwing almost tangible shadows against the narrow walls of the bedroom. On the other side of the curtain, Martin could hear Georgie speaking softly - presumably to Jon, as the Archivist answered on the same hushed tones, albeit tinged with urgency. Martin tried to ignore the twinge of jealousy in his gut - the sentiment was too quick, too strange, and most likely unwanted - but he couldn't help but wonder about their history. Georgie seemed to care about Jon, and he trusted her in return. Were they simply acquaintances, or was there something else?

Martin shook his head to dispel the questions. If he let himself think about it, he wouldn't get any sleep.

Dropping his pack by the foot of the bed, he untied his shoes, shed his coat, and slipped under the covers. The crackling of the fire and the low chattering of two old friends quickly lulled him to sleep.

* * *

 

Martin woke up.

He opened his eyes; the room around him was so dark if felt like he still had them closed. He thought, at first, that the fire in the other room had died down - Georgie had probably snuffed out the candles, and gone out on her mysterious midnight business. There _should_ have been some kind of light, still, even with the fireplace cold and empty. Martin lifted a hand in front of his face; he could feel his breath on his fingers, but all he could see before him was the inky blackness of a moonless night - or of a closed casket, buried deep underground.

Something felt very, very wrong.

He slowly sat up. The soft texture of the blanket under his hands wasn't as reassuring as it should have been; he grabbed for his glasses on the side table and slipped them on, as if they had any power to pierce the gloom. They did nothing to help his blindness, but at least, if there was _something_ to see, he would see it.

Martin carefully swung his legs out of the bed, feeling for the ground; it seemed further away than it had before, but in the absence of light, maybe his senses - as well as the fear building in his chest - were playing tricks on him. Making sure his fingers kept grazing the bed, he stepped around it, reaching for the curtain in the dark.

He was met with smooth, cool porcelain.

Martin stifled a cry, stumbling back from what had felt like - a mouth? He fell back onto the bed, hurriedly gathering his legs under him. Stories were coming back to him, stories about hands in the darkness and monsters hidden under beds. He struggled to keep his breathing under control, trying to reassure himself with scraps and shreds of logical explanation. Perhaps the moon had disappeared under a blanket of clouds thick enough to block out its glow. He might not have seen the porcelain mask hanged in Georgie's bedroom; God knew other things had occupied his mind at the time.

A few minutes later, he had almost managed to convince himself - enough to call out:

"Jon? Georgie?"

His voice echoed, hollow and unheeded, in the suddenly too-vast bedroom; it was answered, after a beat, with an artificial laugh - slow, at first, then growing in volume and cadence, as if someone who'd tried to keep their hilarity under control had finally given in.

"Oh, they won't hear you here, Assistant," the voice in the dark said, amused. It sounded familiar - familiar enough that Martin didn't immediately lunge for the knife stashed under the pillow, and instead squinted in direction of the voice.

"Who are you?" he asked, surprising himself with how firm he sounded. "Do I know you?"

The thing in the dark chuckled.

"Don't you recognize your sovereign?"

Slowly, a face took shape in the dark. It was almost painful to watch, like looking at the sun, and Martin looked away, blinking to dispel the imprint of it behind his eyeballs. The laugh ringed again - the only sound in the otherwise completely silent void surrounding him.

"Look at me, Assistant," the voice said, tender but with enough authority that Martin immediately looked up.

There was a mask, stark white - _bone_ white - visible in incredible details even though all the rest was still plunged in darkness. The lips were painted dark red, like a smear of dried blood; the eye sockets were empty, yet there was no doubt as to where the creature was looking.

A small, golden crown was stamped on its forehead.

Martin remembered where he'd heard the voice before - in the Institute's library, when Elias had received a royal visit.

"Nikola?" he said in a breath, and from the darkness came the laugh again. The mask did not move, though it somehow managed to look mocking.

"Oh, is this a way to address your queen?" it - she - _it_ , it was definitely an it - wondered. "You haven't been away for so long that you'd forget your manners, surely. Well, it doesn't matter. You'll remember - soon enough."

The mask got closer - or bigger, perhaps, though the difference wasn't important since the result was the same: the porcelain face and its slashed red mouth grew in Martin's sight, impossible to ignore. He tried shutting his eyes; the darkness behind his eyelids was identical to the darkness in front of him, monstrous face included.

"You can't run, Assistant." The voice was flowing around him, coming from every direction at once, and he felt like he was falling. "As small and insignificant as it is, you've created a menace to my plan, and this cannot stand. Elias is watching, and the Hunters are coming." The sweet, melodious tones turned sour and cruel, and the voice grew louder, closer, making his teeth ache and turning his blood to ice. "You won't go far. You won't find the other Archivist.  You won't get the help you're looking for. We won't let you."

A hand grazed his cheek - affectionate, almost, the mimicry of a mother's touch - and he tried batting it away, without any success. There wasn't anything actually touching him - but he could feel the long nails scraping against his jaw as sure as if there was. A claw pressed down on his throat.

" _I_ won't let you."

Martin yelped when he felt the skin break, and Nikola laughed again.

"We'll see each other again soon, I'm sure. Until then..."

The claws closed down around him, ruthless, and Martin-

Martin woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it's........a multichapter thing now i guess??? I have enough material to turn this into a longfic probably
> 
> as usual blease don't hesitate to comment i need the fuel


	3. touched by fingerwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad dreams are not to be ignored, especially if they leave a mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a long hiatus. Oops?

He opened his eyes to the pale rays of the fun filtering through the curtains, and an appetizing smell of bacon. He didn't move for a while, simply looking up at the wooden beams of the ceiling - listening to the noises in the kitchen, familiar even if the setting was not. He could feel his own heart thundering in his chest, taste the residual fear on his tongue. He remembered the events of the night before in sharp details, but it couldn't have happened for real, right? In the light of the new morning, everything seemed so - normal. Or at least, what passed for normal these days.

By the time he managed to drag himself out of the bedroom, he had almost convinced himself the whole thing had been nothing but a nightmare fueled by his own anxieties.

Georgie was up, her back to him as she leaned at the opened kitchen window. She was talking to someone - or, more accurately, cooing at them. She turned around when she heard Martin behind her, revealing her interlocutor: a ragged, ruffled-looking black bird which was pecking strips of meat out of her hand. It gave an ominous broken caw, displeased that Martin would monopolize Georgie's attention.

"Hello there!" she greeted him. "Hope we didn't wake you up. Lyndon here tend to be loud when he drops by for breakfast."

The crow cawed again and batted its wings menacingly; a few feathers dropped. Georgie shushed it and gave its head a mollifying scratch, then offered Martin an apologetic smile. "Forgive him, he gets jealous around new people. Alright, off you go, now," she told the bird, and it took off after giving Martin a last glassy glare.

Georgie closed the window, and gestured for Martin to come forward. She winced once she got a better look at his face.

"Oooh. Tough night? I have coffee."

He wasn't usually one to go for the beverage, but Martin mumbled an acquiescence. As he went to join her in the kitchen, he noticed the lump of black cloth in one of the sofa in front of the crackling fireplace: Jon, wrapped into his cloak, fast asleep.

Before he could do anything stupid, like stop and stare - just to see if he could discern a difference between an artificial sleep and its more natural counterpart - Martin looked back at Georgie. She gave him a tight, somewhat guarded smile.

"Turns out sleeping for over a decade doesn't exempt you from having to get some rest at night," she said. Then, tilting her head toward the kitchen table: "Come. Sit."

He did so, and she put a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, followed by a bowl of sugar and a plate of toast. She turned away to load a dish with bacon and scrambled eggs, then set it on the table as well before sitting down opposite him. He stared down on the food.

"Still people-free," she teased, and he gave an embarrassed chuckle.

"I trust you. I'm just - not very hungry."

He should have been; he hadn't had a decent meal in a day, and the smell rising from the dish would have been enough to make his mouth water in any other circumstances. As things were, the knot in his throat made eating seem like an arduous task.

"You didn't sleep well," Georgie prompted. Martin shrugged and grabbed his fork, distractedly stabbing at a piece of bacon.

"I just- I had a weird dream. I think."

"You think?"

"It felt-" Martin hesitated, feeling a bit silly, talking about his dreams with an Avatar over breakfast as if they were old friend. Georgie arched an encouraging eyebrow, and he tried again: "It felt very real, but it was - very strange. But then again, my life has been very strange for the past twenty-four hours," he chuckled self-deprecatingly. "It was probably just a nightmare."

Georgie frowned, her gaze dropping down, and she reached across the table. Martin involuntarily flinched back, and Georgie stopped, her fingers a few centimeters away from his throat.

"Do your nightmares usually make you bleed?" she asked softly.

Martin lifted his hand, brushing against the spot Nikola's claws had slashed - and sure enough, it was still sore, coated in dried blood.

"Oh," he said faintly.

He heard a rustling noise behind him, followed by a sleepy grunt, then a disappointed one as reality came crashing down, as it was bound to do.

"Georgie...?" Jon rasped out, struggling to straighten up.

"In the kitchen, Jon. Get up, you're going to want to see this."

There was more rustling, an aborted swear or two, then Jon extracted himself from the sofa - hair sticking out in every direction, clothes rumpled beyond repair, already scowling.

Martin looked away. Georgie gave him a pointed glance, but was merciful enough not to comment.

Jon came over, forgoing the table to grab one of the cups that were drying next to the sink.

"Tea?" he grunted, looking around. Georgie got up and handed him the coffee pot. He grumbled a thanks, made a face when he caught the scent of coffee. Georgie shrugged.

"Didn't feel like tea, today. You can brew some if you want though, you know where to find it."

The easy familiarity between them made Martin's heart ache; he looked down on his plate, feeling like an intruder. Which was - it was _stupid_ , right, it wasn't as if he fit there in the first place, in the middle of nowhere, eating breakfast with two people who might have been human at one point but weren't any longer. The matter of whether they'd been something more than friends in the past was none of his concern, and frankly he had more important things to focus on - for example, fleeing far enough away from the capital that neither the queen or her lackeys would come after him.

Jon ended up pouring himself a cup of coffee, ostensibly displeased, and he added three spoonfuls of sugar to it before joining them at the table.

"What did you think I needed to see, then?" he asked, taking a careful sip.

"Martin had a... dream," Georgie said, then looked at him encouragingly: "Go on, then."

Martin shuffled awkwardly on his chair when Jon looked at him, intrigued, and he gave an helpless shrug.

"I- I woke up last night. Except not? It felt as real as this moment right now does, though I couldn't see. Just - the thickest obscurity you can imagine, save for a face. Or a mask, I guess. Nikola's mask."

He heard Jon's breath catch, and the Archivist put his cup down.

"Did she hurt you?"

"What?" Martin blinked, and the scowl was back on Jon's face.

"Did she hurt you," he repeated, gaze hard, and Martin gulped.

"Uh, just -" He motioned at the scratch on his neck. "Just this. It's fine."

Jon reached to touch the wound, and this time Martin didn't try to dodge. He froze, instead; Jon looked _angry,_ but the gentleness with which his fingers traced the cut betrayed worry rather than anger. There was no doubt he could feel how fast Martin's heart was beating, too.

“I don't think running is an option anymore, Jon,” Georgie said softly. “Not for you, and certainly not for Martin.”

The Archivist ignored her. He withdrew his hand, and schooled his features in a more neutral expression.

"What happened?" he asked.

Martin felt the shiver creeping up his spine again. It was undoubtedly a manifestation of the Archivist's power, as this time again, the words came spilling out of his mouth before he could even think of them.

"She said I couldn't run. That she was sending Hunters after me. After us. She said we're too big of a threat, and that she wants to eliminate us before we seek the other Archivist's help." He frowned as the compulsion faded. "You didn't need to do that. I would've answered."

Jon looked surprised, then regretful.

"I apologize. I didn't- mean to."

"It's- fine."

"It's not. It starts with small things, then before you know it, you're luring people into the woods and ripping their heart out. No offense, Georgie.”

"None taken."

Martin looked at Georgie, vaguely horrified by the implication; she answered with a placid smile, then bent down to scratch the Admiral’s back.

“She talked about another Archivist, didn't she?” Jon asked, pensive. He grabbed a piece of toast but, instead of eating it, began shredding it into small pieces between his fingers.

“She did,” Martin acquiesced, and Georgie hummed.

“She must have been talking about Gertrude. I thought she'd been killed before the coup even happened?”

Jon shrugged. “That’s what I heard too, but I wouldn't be surprised to know she's alive. She's tricky. If anyone could survive an assassination attempt orchestrated by some of the most powerful among us…”

“Wait, I thought there was only one Archivist,” Martin interrupted. He wasn't surprised to learn his information was erroneous, but he now had the perfect occasion to fix his misconceptions.

“Only one person holds the title at a time, yes,” Jon said slowly. “Elias appointed me after Gertrude’s...disappearance.”

“You think he was involved?”

“I'm _sure_ of it. She was - is a strong-willed woman, I doubt she would have agreed to stay quiet had she had any say in it. She was a potential obstacle, and he removed her from his way.”

"She could help, then."

Jon pushed the debris of his piece of toast in a neat pile, dusted off his hands, and grabbed his cup.

"Perhaps." He took a sip, grimaced minutely at the bitter taste of the coffee. "She's not the most altruistic person - or monster, I suppose," he corrected with a sidelong glance at Martin, who blinked quizzically.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Jon considered him for a moment, hesitant.

"Well, I think it would be best if we kept travelling together, at least for the moment? Nikola came after you last night, and she left her mark on you - she could potentially do it again, either to get to me or because she considers you a loose end. I can't guarantee your safety, but I would rather -" Jon looked away, visibly choosing his next words with care, then finished quickly: "I'd rather be able to keep an eye on you."

Martin stared at him, trying to figure out a way to convey his assent without sounding too eager, but Jon kept talking, still on a hurried, muddled tone:

"I'd understand if you weren't comfortable with this solution - we are going to encounter more monsters along the way, so maybe you'd actually be safer if you kept travelling away from the capital - Nikola's reach has to run short at some point, I'm sure, and perhaps it would be for the best if you simply put some distance between you and the mess that is about to happen around here-"

"I don't mind coming with you," Martin breathed out, as nonchalant as he could manage. Jon stopped short, then nodded.

"Ah - Alright. That - that's good."

Georgie let out a pointed cough from the other side of the table. Jon jumped as if he'd been caught in a compromising position, then turned an accusatory glare on her.

"How are you going to find her?" she asked. "Gertrude, I mean?"

"I can just look for her, surely," Jon said, annoyed.

"Can you? If that was possible, Elias would've done it already, surely."

Jon didn't answer; instead he huffed, closed his eyes, and breathed in. For a moment, nothing appeared to happen. Martin kept quiet. After a minute, Jon opened his eyes again.

"So?" Georgie prompted.

"You know the answer already."

"Yes, but I want to hear you say it."

"Georgie, please-" Jon seemed physically pained at the idea of admitting Georgie was right, and Martin decided to come to his rescue.

"What's going on?"

"I usually have a... talent when it comes to locating people," Jon said in a way that left not doubt about the origin of that talent. "I can't seem to find Gertrude, though. She must have found a way to hide herself, which is only sensible given - as Georgie mentioned - Elias would have been able to find her otherwise."

"You can do that? "

"Some Avatars are particularly good at dissimulating their presence," Jon said, grabbing his mug of coffee. “Unfortunately, I am not among them. We might find someone willing to help us, though.”

He drained half of his cup in one go and stood up.

“I’ll see if I can track down some old acquaintances. Maybe someone will have intel on Gertrude’s whereabouts.”

Without further comment, he picked up his mug and made his way back to his spot in front of the hearth; the Admiral trotted after him, jumping on his lap as soon as he was settled.

Martin looked down on his rapidly cooling plate of food, realizing in a daze exactly what he had gotten himself into. There was no going back now; it was either see it through himself, or hide and pray nothing would come out of the darkness to put him down. Frankly, given the cut on his throat, he didn't trust his chances to make it alone.

The idea of having to stick around didn't bother him as much as it should have.

* * *

Georgie had packed them some provisions for the road, instructing Martin to “make sure this idiot eats from time to time”. Jon had grumbled something about not needing a guardian, but then he'd thanked Georgie and given her an awkward peck on the cheek, so Martin figured he was actually grateful.

The sky had somewhat cleared since the previous day, though the temperature chilly. The sun was casting an optimistic glow on the path ahead, making the woods around look a lot less sinister than they had the night before.

The crow Martin had seen earlier was perched of the extinguished lantern next to the door. It tilted its head at them, looking inquisitive even with its void, clouded-over eyes; Martin quickly stepped away from it, feeling vaguely sick when he realized the animal was dead, and most likely had been for a while. The bird gave one single, mangled caw, and flew off.

“I'll be keeping an eye on your progression,” Georgie said. Then she snapped her fingers as if she'd just remembered something, and fished an item out of her apron. “Oh, I almost forgot! You left those last time you were here.”

She handed a pair of thick rimmed glasses to Jon, who accepted them with bewilderment.

“I was wondering where they'd gone. Thank you.” He stopped short of putting them on, frowned, and started cleaning them with the lining of his cloak.

“You don't look like you need glasses,” Martin said, remembering the assurance with which Jon had guided them in near complete darkness.

“I don't. My vision may be as poor as it used to be when I was human, but I have other eyes to see with now.”

Well. It made sense, Martin guessed. Who needed boring human eyes when you had the ability to see _everything?_ Jon put the glasses on and blinked a few times, readjusting to the correction. The thick frames shifted the focus away from the inquisitive sharpness in his eyes, lending him the severity of a scholar - making him look, Martin couldn't help thinking, _deceptively_ human.

Georgie was smiling, a complicated mixture of fondness and worry and regret on her face, and she pulled Jon into a hug as soon as he was done fussing with his glasses. Jon froze, just a moment, before relaxing into the embrace and returning it stiffly. Georgie said something in his ear, too low for Martin to catch it, and pulled away. She gave Jon one last look, in answer to which he shrugged; Georgie then turned to Martin, her arms open and her smile encouraging:

“Come here, give me a proper goodbye, will you?”

He had to bend so she could wrap her arms around his shoulders. It was a good hug,  despite every fiber of his being screaming he was touching something _unnatural_ and _dangerous_. Georgie’s hug was genuine, as far as he could tell, but her body felt wrong in his grasp - too hard, too cold, like a gravestone with iron-chain arms.

"Take care of him, alright?" she said as she pulled away, loud enough for Jon to hear. The Archivist made a plaintive noise.

"Georgie! I can take care of myself!"

"So why don't you?" she shot back.

Jon spluttered, grumbled something about _not believing it,_ and spun around, starting down the path away from Georgie's cottage. The woman chuckled, and laid a hand on Martin's arm.

"It does him good to hear some truth from time to time. Don't worry, he won't stay upset." She considered Jon's retreating back for a second, his coat puffing up in the wind behind him like the feathers of an angry crow, and she added: "Not more upset as he usually is, in any case. A moody character, our Jon, if you haven't noticed."

"When you're done gossiping, Martin, you might want to think about catching up," the Archivist dryly called above his shoulder. Georgie gave Martin a friendly pat.

"I won't keep you longer, then. Good luck, Martin. You're going to need it."

On those words, she turned away and disappeared back into her home. Martin gave the welcoming house a last longing look, then hurried after Jon.

* * *

“Have you heard of the Mirror Marshes?” Jon asked, some twenty minutes into the journey. The pace he had adopted was rather fast, and Martin doubted he'd be inclined to take regular breaks; small talk was then out of the question, and he was happy enough simply following the Archivist, who seemed to know the way. They'd left the looming shadows of the forest and reached a road that, though it didn't seem to see many travelers, was still a step up from the leaves-littered paths they'd followed until then. The mid-morning sun made ribbons of steam rise from the uncultivated fields around them, and it would have been a lovely walk, if not for the destination Jon's impromptu question was suggesting.

Martin grimaced. He had, in fact, heard of the place; it was a marsh, as its name indicated, consisting of a multitude of shallow puddles. The water there was said to be preternaturally still, undisturbed by the wildlife that usually thrived in those areas. Those particular marshes were deserted, though, abandoned by even the smallest insect - leaving the water so calm it reflected the sky like as many shards of a mirror, scattered across the plains. It was rumored to be haunted - but such things were often said of pieces of wilderness isolated from civilization.

Martin said as much to Jon, who sniffed disdainfully.

“It depends on what you mean by _haunted_ , I suppose. There aren't any ghosts, despite the place’s - hmm, sinister past.”

“You mean the Last Hunt?" Another tidbit of information that made Martin less than enthusiastic about the prospect of visiting the marshes: the army that, so long ago, had been sent to cull the monstrous population east of the capital, and had elected to go through the wetlands instead of skirting it. Their last mistake. Hundreds of knights, footsoldiers, archers and lancers had died there. Their bodies had been left to rot, their armors left to to rust in the middle of the watery trap. No one wanted to risk incurring the wrath of the creatures who'd caused so many brave men to drown in ponds barely deep enough to reach their mid-calves.

The Mirror Marshes might not have been cursed, but it certainly hadn't help their reputation.

"Oh, that's how it's named in the history books? We called it a _bloody damn mistake_ , back then," Jon grumbled.

"Back - that was about two hundred years ago!"

Jon gave him a sharp look.

"You do realize I am much older than I look, don't you?"

"I- I hadn't imagined it would be... quite that much?"

“I was- twelve or thirteen, when the Hunt happened. People thought the Entities would consider it an act of war, but they - _we_ rarely consider human actions enough of a threat to retaliate. Our plans have been formulated long ago, some at the birth of Fear itself. We exist on entirely different scales.”

“So that would make you,” Martin calculated quickly, “about… two hundred and thirty?”

“Glad to see you focus on the important details,” Jon said dryly.

Martin blushed. "Sorry, I- of course. You were saying something about the Mirror Marshes? Please tell me we're not going there."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that," Jon said, and he almost looked regretful. "There's someone there who can help us go unnoticed. We won't go far, if Elias is able to follow our progression on a map."

"Someone? I didn't think anyone lived near-" Martin started, before the realization dawned on him. "Oh, you mean a- a..."

"A monster, yes. Or an Avatar, however you prefer to call it - though in this case, the first one might be more accurate. The Spiral is always a bit... unpredictable." Then, he added quickly, as some kind of reassurance: "It tends to like me well enough, though! So we'll probably be safe."

Martin hummed, unconvinced. He didn't fancy betting his chances of survival on a "well enough" - but what else could he do? He kept following Jon as they journeyed toward their destination and, as the sun rose higher and higher, his mind drifted toward his friends and colleagues stayed at the Institute.

Elias would have noticed his disappearance, by now - if he hadn't known about it from the moment Martin had started thinking about his plan. He had to be aware Sasha and Tim were in on it as well; had he done anything to them? They knew people, though; people who'd notice if they went missing. They were probably fine. They had to be.

Still, Martin had to warn them of what was happening. He had packed some paper and pencils before leaving, just in case; he could write a letter and arrange for it to be delivered to them as soon as possible. The capital wasn't too far away, and it would hopefully get to them in a couple of days, provided Jon and Martin went through a town connected to the postal services. He was about to ask Jon about an eventual stop in such settlement, but Jon turned back to him at the same time.

“You don't have to worry,” he said again. Then, as if it was the easiest thing to say: “I'll protect you.”

He then abruptly snapped his mouth shut, teeth clacking against each other in self-conscious surprise. From his position, a step behind Jon’s shoulder, Martin could clearly see a light blush spreading on the Archivist's face, and it took him all the will on the world not to reach out and entwine his fingers in Jon’s, the way they had the day before.

* * *

They walked in silence as the sun continued its course. Jon was apparently too lost in his thoughts to start a conversation, and Martin was too shy - and not inspired enough - to do so. The quiet didn't bother him, though; it was a nice day, and the spectacle of golden light falling on long stretches of wild greenery hadn't gotten old yet. They hadn't passed any other travelers, but it wasn't particularly unusual to find oneself alone on those smaller roads; people usually kept to the more protected, more traveled arteries, even if it meant having to lengthen their trip a little - sore feet were far preferable to a slit throat, after all.

This was, certainly, the reason he couldn't help but feel uneasy when he caught sight of the two figures coming the other way. They were still far enough, half-hidden behind the bend in the path that Martin couldn't discern many details about them, save for the fact they were clothed in dark coats and wide-brimmed hats.

Jon had to have spotted them too, if the suddenly tense line of his shoulders was to be believed. He slowed down slightly until he was walking next to Martin, and grabbed his sleeve.

"Is there... anything wrong?" Martin asked, when it seemed like Jon wasn't going to speak first.

Jon kept his gaze fixed on the approaching silhouettes. "I don't know. I'm not sure."

"What do you mean?"

"It means _I'm not sure,_ " Jon snapped, glancing at Martin; he looked nervous. "Be quiet. Act natural."

There weren't any paths branching out of the main road, and they couldn't hide in any convenient ditch - no other way but straight ahead. The strangers had seen them anyway. One was even waving.

"I don't like this," Jon muttered, more for his own benefit than for Martin's; his fingers tightened on Martin's sleeve.

As they came closer, the travelers became clearer. They looked entirely ordinary, wearing long, well-made coats, smiling at Martin and Jon in a friendly way as they approached. They were holding walking sticks in one hand and leather suitcases in the other. Apart from their unexpected presence, there wasn't anything strange about them.

Martin turned to say as much to Jon, when a draft snatched the hat of one of the persons, bringing to Martin's nose a distinctive smell of clove and old flowers. Jon seemed to recognize it; his eyes widened, and he pulled Martin to a stop.

"The Stranger," he hissed, just as the two individuals came to a halt a couple of steps away from them.

They were still smiling, but the expression looked far less friendly from up close. It looked as though their grin had been molded by someone who had learned about what smiles were supposed to look like from someone with very fragmented memories, and had decided it must involve only the mouth. Their skin looked pasty in the bright light; it made Martin think of the too-perfect mannequins behind shops' windows, their waxy smooth skin and empty painted eyes.

The one who still had its hat on - a man, early thirties, red hair and brown eyes - nodded courteously at Jon. Its glassy stare jumped to Martin, and remained there.

"Hello, Archivist," it stated on a monotone voice. "We've heard of the recent developments."

Jon gave an humorless chuckle. "Came to lock me back up?"

The man tilted its head, smile rigid and empty.

"We wouldn't dream of it! You've gotten out once, we know it would be in vain. No, Archivist. The Queen wishes to see you."

"Nikola? What does she want?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to ask her yourself. You know how much she likes to retain a certain air of... mystery."

"Oh, is this what you call it now?" muttered Jon. Then, louder: "What if we refuse?"

The other creature stepped forward. It was the one whose hat had been snatched away by the wind - and it was unfortunate, as it exposed the ugly, puckered scar running from its brow to its jaw. Martin winced. It didn't look like a healthy wound. In fact, it didn't look like a wound that belonged on a _live_ body.

It looked like the kind of mark you'd find in a morgue.

The uncapped Stranger tapped the bottom of their cane on the ground, and a long, thin silver blade sprang out of the other end. It then smiled at Jon - a proper smile, this time, showing too many row of teeth and absolute darkness behind them - and said:

"It's quite alright, Archivist. We don't actually need you to agree."

Needle-like spear aimed directly at Jon's throat, the Stranger sprang forward.


	4. a name whispered in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An exploration on country-dwellers' relationship with the things that live in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm done with fandom exchanges for the foreseeable future so hopefully I might be able to write more now ~~and to answer the backlog of comments I'm so sorry I read them all I love them~~

Jon had been expecting the blow; he threw himself to the side in a flurry of black cloak, putting himself at a safer distance. Martin had stayed frozen in place, though, taken aback by how quick the situation had turned sour. He stared, eyes round in surprise, at the creature who'd unexpectedly replaced his companion next to him. The Stranger snarled, and turned its glassy eyes on Martin.

“Travelling with a meal?” it creaked, its teeth glinting in the sunlight. “I always thought you people fed off paper and tales.”

“Martin, get back! Get away from them!” Jon shouted, and Martin did so, scrambling away from the monster - and from Jon himself. It didn't move, instead looking with interest between Martin and Jon.

“Oh, Archivist. Is he important to you? Does his life _matter?”_

Jon glared at it; the grass around him seemed a lot more insubstantial than it had been the moment before, and the air suddenly felt drier. Martin swallowed, and his throat was as parched as if he'd just been walking through a desert.

“None of your business,” Jon growled, narrowing his eyes. “Leave him alone.”

The monster grinned. “What are you going to do if I don’t? _Talk_ me into dying?”

“I just might.”

He looked furious, lips pressed in a tight line and eyes scalpel-sharp, but even Martin could see it was baseless bravado. The Stranger wasn't fooled either. It laughed - a dry, dusty sound - then turned its head back toward Martin.

"Well then," it rasped. "I guess we shall see."

It initiated a swing of his blade, but Martin had had the time to gather his wits. His borrowed sword slid out of its sheath with a frail ring, and he pitifully raised it in front of him. He attempted to appear fearless, to show those creatures - to show _Jon_ \- that he could defend himself - though facing the thin, cat-like body of the Stranger, it was hard not to realize the absurdity of this endeavor.

“Oh, look,” it cackled, addressing its companion who was watching the scene with a bored but indulgent expression. “The food wants to play too. Come on then, rabbit! Show me your claws!”

It lunged forward once again, aiming this time for Martin. He'd thought he'd be ready for the attack, but nothing could have prepared him for the vivacity with which the Avatar moved. His sword rang as the silver blade hit it with an incredible savagery, numbing his arm up to the elbow; he stumbled backward, and the Stranger tutted, twirling its bladed stick between its fingers.

"That won't do, bunny. No, no, that won't do at all."

It hadn't genuinely tried to hit him, Martin understood as a pit opened in his stomach. That first blow had merely been a test. The horror of the situation hit him like a block of granite, turning his blood to ice as the dagger began to tremble in his clammy hand; he glanced at Jon, who didn't look like he was getting by any better, pale with rage and dread.

A distant part of Martin's mind marveled at the fact that monsters could look scared in the first place.

"He's not going to save you," piped up the red-haired Stranger, examining its fingernails. It was looking supremely bored. "He's just going to do as he always does: Watch, and let you die."

Martin felt doubt seep into his heart at those words. They hadn't known each other for long, but still he thought of Jon as an ally - even a _friend,_ maybe, if the Archivist let him. He'd seen Jon act flustered, awkward, _human;_ but what if that was all what it had ever been? An act? Did he actually care at all about what could happen to Martin?

Jon looked at him, and it was as if he could see right into Martin's heart; he shook his head, slightly. Mouthed: _no._

The knot in Martin's chest loosened slightly, and he brought his attention back on the Stranger facing him.

"I don't think he will," he said, surprised by the assurance in his voice. He gripped the dagger tighter, using both hands to keep it from shaking too much. His opponent gave a delighted laugh, and brought its own weapon up.

"Now, that's what I'm talking about! Teeth and claw, rabbit."

Martin glared at it; he felt inexplicably angry, all of a sudden - exasperated that those beings would keep considering him as nothing but a prey, or as a pawn to use against Jon.

"Don't," he growled, his voice shaking with a mixture of terror and fury. "Don't call me that again."

Before the Stranger could quip back, he lashed out at it, as quick and vicious as he could. The monster gave a surprised yelp and attempted to deflect the blow; metal on metal rang as the blades slid against each other, but the point of Martin's still managed to open a nasty-looking gash along its right side. The Stranger in front of Martin cursed; the one behind it, that had so far stood idle, looked dumbstruck as its companion stumbled back, clutching at the cut into its black coat.

"Alright, _rabbit,"_ the hurt Stranger snarled. "I was going to dispose of you quickly, because we don't have time to waste on cattle, but if you insist-"

Martin threw himself to the side, propelled by adrenaline-fueled instinct alone. Still, he barely managed to avoid the jab that came flying straight at his head. The blade slashed the air, then came back toward him in a flash of silver, this time grazing the skin, leaving a bloody notch right below his right eye. Martin cried out, tripping over his own feet and falling to the ground, the third attack only missing him by a second. The Stranger laughed triumphantly when it saw him toppled over and defenseless, and readied its finishing blow -

"Stop this!" Jon yelled out.

The red-haired Stranger barked something at the one attacking Martin. It reluctantly suspended its attack, and glared at Jon, who tentatively asked: "If we agree to follow you, will you leave him alone?"

The two creatures exchanged a glance, fake eyes meeting fake eyes - and there was a moment that Martin thought was hesitation, the wavering of the blade pointed at his chest, the slight tilt of the leading Stranger's head, perhaps an injunction to mercy -  before they both turned to Jon, one flashing a cruel smile, the other only showing frozen inflexibility.

"The human was never going to survive, Archivist."

Martin's breath caught; he screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the final strike, for the blade that would pierce his chest.

Instead he heard a rough croak, the flapping of moth-eaten wings, and the cries of hundreds of decaying throats.

The two Strangers screamed - a terrible, nightmarish noise that would without a doubt haunt Martin's nights for the months to come. He heard the distinct sound of tearing fabric and the one, less recognizable, but that left him horrified when he did, of tearing _skin._ He opened his eyes again just in time to see Jon reach for him. The Archivist dragged him back onto his feet, looking paler than Martin had ever seen him before, his eyes the only truly substantial element in his paper-thin face. He said something while tugging Martin back, but Martin couldn't hear any of it over the sound of the carnage happening nearby. He risked a glance - a regrettable mistake, he realized immediately. Both of the monsters were covered in small bodies, some feathery, some fury, some other covered in tarnished scales. That mass of wringing creatures was shredding the creatures with teeth and beaks, with claws and talons, with a single-minded ferocity Martin desperately wanted to look away from, without ever quite managing to.

Steadily embedded in the scarred Stranger's face was a familiar ragged crow. It ripped a strip of dry flesh from its pray at the same moment Martin noticed it. Sand spilled from a cheek, exposing the yellowed bone underneath; Georgie's crow swallowed the bit of desiccated meat, then gave a triumphant caw.

Martin barely registered the hand on his jaw, entirely too captivated by the horrifying spectacle, until Jon forced him to look in his direction.

"We have to go, _now,_ " he said, though Martin read it on his lips more than he actually heard it.

Jon grabbed Martin's wrist, pulling him past the screeching monsters and the dead critters reducing them to pieces. It seemed like they would be able to make it, too, getting away with barely a scratch thanks to Georgie's little helpers - until they came close to the red-haired Stranger. It snarled, managed to slap away enough of its attackers to free its walking staff. It hit the bottom of it on the ground, the way its companion had, and a similar silver blade sprang from the end of it. Martin, still shaken up, didn't see the sudden jab come; Jon, anticipating it, threw Martin forward to get him out of range.

Martin heard Jon grunt behind him, but when he tried to look back Jon urged him forward.

"Keep moving," the Archivist ordered with a strange tightness in his voice. Martin obeyed, stumbling forward, getting away as fast as his still wobbly legs would permit him, and he didn't stop until his lungs started burning and his breath started whistling in his chest.

Martin folded, putting his hands on his knees as he breathed heavily to try and make the pain in his chest stop. He could feel the metallic taste of blood in his mouth - his heart beating strong enough he could feel it in his ears, in the tip of his fingers. He anxiously waited for the sound of a pursuit behind them, half expecting the Strangers to have managed to free themselves, hellbent once again on tearing Martin apart - on capturing Jon, and bringing him to Nikola.

No one was coming after them, though, as far as Martin could tell. Which was a good thing, because he really did not have another sprint in him.

After several minutes, his vision cleared of statics enough to make out his surroundings, and he immediately glanced around for Jon; the Archivist was leaning against a tree, and didn't react when Martin said his name.

"Jon?" Martin tried again, staggering toward him. "Is everything alright?"

As he got closer, he could see the way the Avatar was clutching at his side, the carefuly measured way he was breathing in and out. His deathly pale skin was now covered in a telltale sheen of sweat, indicating that the Strangers' last blow had hit after all. Martin felt his heart drop.

"Oh god, Jon-"

"I'm fine!" Jon snapped, then immediately winced. "I'm fine," he repeated, jaw tight, looking away from Martin. "I heal fast."

Martin stood there awkwardly, hesitating between insisting on taking a look at the wound or letting Jon deal with it by himself. In the end, he tentatively asked:

"Is there anything I can do?"

Jon glanced at him, visibly reluctant to admit he needed help.

"We - mmh. If we could stop in a village before going into the Marshes, it might be for the best. I need - sustenance."

Martin was already swinging the pack off his shoulders for the map he'd stored in it.

"If you're hungry," he said as he looked for the folded sheet of paper, "Georgie packed food for us."

"I didn't - I didn't mean food."

It took a split second for Martin to connect the dots, and he froze.

"You don't mean people, do you?" he asked suspiciously.

"As a manner of speaking, I am."

"This isn't as reassuring as you might think it is."

Giving a pained chuckle, Jon straightened up. He cautiously moved his arm away from his side, taking a look at the slash along his ribs; it didn't look life-threatening to Martin's inexperienced eyes, but it was possible that Jon's dark outfit had made it look less terrible than it was by absorbing most the blood.

"I don't need the people per say," Jon said, covering the gash with his cape again. Martin looked back at his face - which, while it was still sickly pale, at least had lost its previous unhealthy sheen - then started digging around for the map again as Jon explained: "I need their stories."

"Stories?" Martin asked, confused. Jon shrugged, grimaced when the gesture tugged on his wound.

"I'm an Archivist. Recording stories is my purpose, and - well, I haven't filled that purpose in a while. I suspect my god might be getting impatient about the whole thing - denying me quick healing as I've denied it its offerings."

"Oh." Martin fumbled around for appropriate words, then went for: "Sounds... inconvenient?"

Probably not the most appropriate thing he could have come up with, but Jon didn't seem to mind.

"It's a contract, and I haven't fulfilled my part of the bargain in years. I'd say it's justified enough."

Jon reached Martin just as he was getting the map out. Martin unfolded it and held it at arm's length so Jon could have a clear view as well, and set out to find their current position.

"We're here," Jon immediately said, pointing at a cluster of lines that didn't look any more remarkable than any other cluster of lines.

Martin hummed in agreement, not so much because he'd come to the same conclusion and more because he wouldn't have had a clue of where to begin with anyway.

"I guess the nearest town is... Sunninghill? It would make us go off tracks a bit, though."

"We don't have much choice," Jon mumbled, squinting at the map. At first, Martin thought the idea of lengthening their trip had upset him - but then Jon seemed to lose his balance. Martin caught Jon as he pitched forward, receiving the solid weight of the Avatar like a bookshelf collapsing on his chest.

The second stretched as Jon blinked blearily up at Martin; then he pushed himself away, vigorously shaking his head, unstable on his legs.

"Are you going to be able to make it?" Martin asked, trying to ignore how empty his arms felt compared to just a second ago. "If you- if you need a story, I could tell you one?"

Jon pulled his cape closer around him and glared at Martin.

"Did anything awful happen to you?"

"Sorry?"

"Did anything awful happen to you, Martin? The most horrible, the better it will work."

Martin’s mind immediately jumped toward his mother - to their last encounter, her rough words, her trembling finger pointed at the door. It still felt horrible, months later, the mixture of guilt and pain and, worst of all, of _anger_ that had filled his heart back then coming back with a vengeance every time he thought about it. It had been, without a doubt, the worst thing that had ever happened to him; still, he suspected it would not satisfy the Archivist.

Silently, Martin shook his head.

“Well then. We should start walking.”

* * *

Sunninghill was a small town perched, as its name suggested, on top of a small hill. It was relatively small, made up of tiny stone houses gravitating around an uncomplicated church. The daylight had started dimming by the time they'd gotten there, and a couple of chimneys were already blowing a light white smoke in the breeze.

Jon had picked up a wooden stick along the way and was using it as a cane, leaning on it more and more heavily as time went by. Martin had thought about asking if he could be of any help; Jon, however, looked like the last thing he wanted at the moment was having someone in his space, and so Martin had kept a respectful distance.

No one paid them much mind as they entered the village, and they passed the first houses in silence. Martin glanced around, noticing the lack of greenery and flowers on the windowsills which he'd come to expect from smaller settlements and that gave them a sense of community, of a simple but fulfilling life. Instead, all he could see were naked stone walls and half-shuttered windows. Some of them were even boarded up, as if the inhabitants of the outskirts didn't expect the light of the town center to protect them from anything that might want to do them harm.

Soon, Jon brought his hood back around his ears, hiding most of his face but not quite managing to dull the inhuman glow of his eyes behind his glasses. Unsurprisingly, it only made the guards they crossed a moment later look at them with more suspicion. Martin gave them a tight smile he hoped conveyed that they weren't looking for trouble, and got closer to Jon so that he could whisper to him:

"Where are we stopping, then? What's the best place for, uh. I mean, to-"

"To collect stories."

“Yes. This.”

Jon came to a halt in the middle of the street, and for a moment Martin worried he'd annoyed him; but Jon simply breathed in, staring blankly in front of him, like a dog sniffing out its prey. He swayed on his feet for a couple of seconds, then started walking again.

“Churches are usually a good place to start,” he said. “People coming in to unload their burdens are always talkative about all kind of things. It is getting late, though - we might have more chances at the tavern. We'll also be able to sleep here.”

As they came closer to the center of the small town, Martin could see more and more people coming and going around. All of them were tired, dusty-faced. Their eyes slid over Martin and Jon, sometimes focusing back when they identified them as unfamiliar. No one looked at them with outright hostility, though, probably mistaking them for weary travelers - which they were, in a sense. Martin, however, was suddenly aware of how badly creatures pretending to be people were most likely welcomed around here. If the town folks found out about what was walking in their midst, no doubt they'd chased them out of the city with torches and pitchforks.

He sidled up to Jon again, as if they'd make a less noticeable target the closer they were standing from each other. Jon threw him a quizzical glance, and Martin fumbled for something to talk about.

"How are you going to convince people to speak to you? Aren't they going to be... suspicious?"

"What do you mean, _suspicious?"_

"Aren't they going to suspect - you know."

Jon blinked, and seemed to be fighting off a smile.

"Don't worry about that, Martin. People are a lot more talkative than you think."

Martin frowned.

“Please don't use that - trick of yours on them. People don't like being compelled into speaking.”

“Really?” Jon gave him an indecipherable look and raised an eyebrow. “Could have fooled me.”

Remembering his own strange feeling of satisfaction when he’d answered Jon’s questions, Martin reddened and elected to drop the subject.

The tavern was easy to spot; of the buildings scattered in a circle around the central place, it was the busiest. The windows were lit up by a warm glow, echoes of music drifting from it as people unhurriedly converged toward it, exhausted from their workday.

The air inside the place was hot, due to both the fire roaring in the open hearth and the size of the congregation already present. No one paid them any mind as they made their way toward a conveniently empty table pushed against one of the walls, though Martin was careful not to let any patron inadvertently jostle Jon. The Archivist looked distinctively more uncomfortable now that they'd entered the establishment; his left hand was clutched, white-knuckled, around his improvised staff, while the other had disappeared under his cape to protect his wounded side.

When they finally reached the small table and took place around it, Jon wasted no time divesting himself of his cape. He took the silver clasp from it and set in on the weathered surface of the table, where it shone, impossible to miss, like a sun in a clouded sky.

Slowly but surely, conversation started to quiet around them; Martin could see people casting glances toward the silver eye on the table, then to the man who had put it there. What was Jon doing - apart from drawing the wrong kind of attention? Martin started to fidget with his sleeve, trying to keep an eye out for sign of agitation in the crowd without catching anyone's eye. Jon, on the contrary, was running an inquisitive gaze over the assembly, seemingly daring people to comment on the eye - until, inevitably, somebody did.

The man stopped in front of their table with his shoulders squared for a fight. He seemed to already have at least a couple of drinks in him, because his face was a remarkable crimson. That could have been caused, too, by the anger he had been mulling over for long minutes before he'd came up to them.

"We don't welcome your kind of people here," he barked, staring at Jon with narrowed, spiteful eyes. Jon looked back, his face a mask of polite neutrality. Martin, however, had known him for just long enough that he could see faint traces of amusement in the way Jon's eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Oh? And what kind of people would that be?"

"Don't play dumb!" the man snarled, slamming a hand on the table. The silver emblem jumped in the air; Martin tensed up, bracing for a fight - or an escape. Jon kept his hands calmly folded in front of him, supremely unbothered by the increasingly agitated villager. "I'm talking about the kind of people who aren't people at all!"

Without blinking once, Jon rose to his feet; the chatter around them, that had already grown considerably quieter since the altercation had started, stopped altogether.

"Nigel Baines," he enunciated carefully; the man instantly went rigid, and if it had been possible, he would probably gone redder as well. "I do not wish you harm. I am only here to listen. Though, if you wished-"

Just as it had earlier when they'd faced the Strangers, the air around Jon suddenly drained of all moisture; Martin swallowed with difficulty, running the tip of his tongue over his parched lips. He'd felt observed ever since they'd entered the place, but the presence around him _now_ didn't feel human in the slightest.

"If you wished," Jon continued, dropping his voice so low everyone had to lean toward him to keep listening, "I could talk, instead."

Martin watched, fascinated, as the color drained from the man's face.

"Don't you bloody dare, you soulless freak -"

"Nigel Baines," Jon said again, louder as to carry across the whole bar. He straightened up to his full height, and only Martin could see the stifled grimace of pain that passed over his features then. Jon breathed in, and started talking, his voice echoing slightly in the dead silence of the room. "Thirty-eight, single, childless. You own a small cattle of cows on the northern edge of the village. It's enough to survive - just barely. Your neighbors are doing much better than you are, aren't they? They think you don't know they mock you behind your back - but you do. And that justifies you having to punish them - slipping into their fields at night, slaughtering a cow, blaming the wolves - or the, _ha._ Soulless freaks, was it?"

The man looked about to pass out, or maybe throw up; shaking, he glanced around to the now-unfriendly faces of his neighbors. He made a desperate attempt at defending himself, though he obviously knew it was already lost.

"It's- it's all a pack of lies! You can't trust them monsters, you know it!"

"Archivists can't lie, Nigel!" someone in the crowd shouted. "How 'bout you just confess already? Is that what happened to Violet?"

The villager started to back away from the table, knocking on the others' frigid shape as he tried to make his way toward the door.

"I don't know what happened to your damn cow, Garrett! Ask _him_ instead!"

"Maybe I will!!"

Martin imagined the man was pointing toward their table, but there were too many people standing between their detractor and them to say for sure. An angry murmur started to rise, as if a hornet's nest had been kicked; the door creaked as it was swung open, and Martin heard the sound of a body being forcefully ejected of the establishment.

Taking advantage of the crowd's distraction, Jon sat back down - or rather, he collapsed on his chair, holding his side and breathing heavily through clenched teeth. Martin immediately leaned toward him, alarmed.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm -" Jon made a move to swat away Martin's worried hand but ended up gripping it instead, fighting against a wave of pain. He released him immediately as if he'd been burned, and shook his head, eyes sliding shut. "I'm fine, Martin, thank you."

Martin drew his hand back, trying not to feel hurt. He looked at the people around them - now talking between each other, still casting glances at Jon, though this time, mixed with more respect than suspicion.

"That was a stupid move. Why did you do that?" Martin asked, not knowing whether to feel angry or amazed.

Jon almost rubbed his forehead with his bloodstained hand before catching himself, clenching it in a fist on the table instead.

"It was a risky bet, I'm aware of that. People in smaller settlements tend to be less wary of some of us, though. They treat us a bit less like brutal monsters, and more like - _really_ unpredictable neighbors. They were most likely to welcome us than to attack us."

"Some of you...?" Martin said, but he was interrupted by someone clearing their throat.

Jon looked up to the woman that had approached their table. Martin hadn't noticed her before then, but Jon didn't seem surprised to find her standing there. She was holding a tankard full of beer and looked on the older side of fifty, graying hair tied into a bun. The expression on her face was a mixture of dread and affected bravery. Jon hid his bloodied hand under the table, and gestured to the chair in front of him with the other.

"Sit."

The woman did so, and pushed the drink she was holding in Jon's direction.

"For you, Archivist." Then, when he failed to entirely mask his surprise, she added: "As payment. For the statement."

"I -" Jon threw a confused look at Martin, who shrugged unhelpfully. What was Jon expecting him to do? He was a total stranger to the strange ceremony. "I don't require payment."

"Oh." The woman looked taken aback, then gave the drink another small shove. "Well, take it anyway. Consider it a welcome present - and an apology for Nigel's rudeness. He isn't from here, he doesn't know how those things work."

"It's - fine. Thank you." Jon accepted the tankard. After considering it for a second, he pushed it toward Martin, and gave him the smallest smile. "Here, you look like you need it more than I do."

Martin wasn't about to refuse the gift, but he glanced toward the woman to make sure she wasn't offended by the re-gifting of her offering. Far from appearing disapproving, she was looking at Martin with an interested expression. Trying to determine if he was a monster as well, possibly; Martin decided to avoid her quizzical gaze, and focused on the drink in his hands.

"In your own time," he heard Jon say to the woman.

The silver eye, still laid on the table, seemed to shimmer as the woman started to speak: first her name, then her occupation, and then -

"I used to live with my father in a house not to far from the church. It's been destroyed since - a fire, about ten years ago. And- there was this _creature_ living under my bedroom floorboard," she was saying. "And before you say anything, no, it wasn't a rat, or anything like that. That layer of wood was the only thing separating my room from the living room below, there was no space for anything to hide in. Still, at night, when the lights were off, there would always be this - scratching. Like something was trying to dig its way through the wood."

She kept talking, the words falling from her lips in an assured fashion Martin would never have expected of her at first. She spoke of the months of restlessness, of not being able to sleep at night because of the thing that always seemed so close to bursting through the floorboard. She'd never had the courage to get up to go look for the source of the noise herself - she was just a kid, and she'd been terrified. Instead, she'd repeatedly told her father about it, only to have him dismiss it as a bad dream.

"- Up until the day he accepted to go downstairs to check for me. He just wanted to reassure me, you know - he was so sure it couldn't be anything but my imagination."

She paused, collecting herself. Martin, feeling that whatever was going to follow wasn't going to be pleasant, drank from his tankard some more. Jon was still as a grave, but he had already started to look distinctly healthier than when they had started.

"I - I still wonder, sometimes, what would have happened if I hadn't insisted he go downstairs that night. Would I have been the one to die? Would the thing that tore him into shred have gotten to me instead? I -"

She looked as if she was about to cry. Martin, without thinking, reached for her hands, which she was wringing together. She jumped a bit when he made contact, but then gave him a grateful smile, lacing the fingers of her left hand with his. She kept going.

"I was all alone, after than. They said some kind of animal had done it. I tried telling them about the scratching under the floorboard, but they didn't believe me. After a while, I stopped believing, too."

She quieted, slumping a bit on her chair as if the ties holding her up had suddenly been cut. Then she looked up again, laying tired eyes on Jon.

"Did I dream it, Archivist? Did I imagine it all?"

Jon, at last, moved; he tilted his head to the side, and reached across the table to catch the woman's free hand between his own.

"No. I believe you."

It was as if a weight had been lifted from her chest; she smiled wearily at Jon, gave his and Martin's hand a squeeze, then got up.

"Thank you for listening," she said. "Thank you for - believing."

Then she was gone.

Her chair didn't remain empty for long, though; soon, a younger man with a bandaged shoulder was standing awkwardly before them. Jon gestured toward the chair.

"Sit."


	5. flirting with disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First-hand account of a life in a shade-infested countryside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh so I lied about updating more often huh. I am So Sorry.

Martin didn't have much to do for the rest of the evening but listen, apart from occasionally accepting the gifts the witnesses would bring to the Archivist. Jon had refused to eat at first; it had taken Martin sternly reminding him of Georgie's request to get him to begrudgingly ingest a couple of pieces of cold meat. Some people had stuck around, perhaps waiting for Jon to do something blatantly inhuman. They had openly eavesdropped on their argument, and although Martin wasn't anxious of what they could be thinking, it had made him feel extremely vulnerable. After that, he'd decided to keep his conversations with Jon to a bare minimum, and he had focused instead on the people who would stop at their table. All had very little in common, apart from the haunted look in their eyes.

It surprised Martin how much those people seemed to trust Jon; he was one of the _others,_ after all. He might as well have been one of the monsters in their stories. But instead of suspicion, what they showed was trust: trust that he'd listen to them, that he'd believe them, that he'd share or even take away the burden they'd been carrying alone for so long. And they all _did_ seem lighter, once they got up again - calmer, peaceful at last - free.

Jon, on the contrary, started to look more and more weary as the night dragged on. His complexion had lost its earlier grey tinge, but his shoulders had started sagging, his speech growing slow and clumsy. Exhaustion, Martin had guessed. He'd been about to put an end to it - because Jon  apparently couldn't be trusted with his own health - when the owner of the tavern had beaten him to the punch. The sturdy woman had rung a heavy bronze bell, loudly announcing closing time - then she had amiably but firmly pushed everyone out, until no one remained but Martin and Jon.

Martin watched the door close behind the last patron and signed, welcoming the sudden quietness. The owner of the establishment came toward them, a rag thrown in the crook of her elbow. She was holding two steaming cups of tea, which she deposited in front of them.

"Not an offering," she told them. "You just look like you need it."

Martin softly thanked her, feeling exhausted now that the electricity had vanished from the air. Jon only dragged the cup to him, and drained half of it in one go with no visible concern about its temperature. The bartender left them to it, and began cleaning around.

"Are you... alright?" Martin risked, not knowing whether Jon was in any mood to talk at this moment.

"I'm not on the verge of losing my insides anymore, so I could be doing worse," Jon grumbled. Steam fogged up his glasses as he huffed on the hot liquid, and he looked somewhat remorseful. "Yes. I am fine."

Martin didn't insist, focusing on the warmth of the cup in his hands instead - familiar, uncomplicated, a well-needed anchor at the end of a grueling day. The owner of the place came back when she noticed they were done, and offered to show them to their room. She refused to hear about any payment, despite Martin insisting to pay for their stay.

"You've compensated me for your night enough already, trust me!" she said, waving a hand in front of her. "Many folk stuck around just for you, you know - you were good for business."

She led them up a wooden staircase and pushed a door, revealing one of the few bedrooms she kept just in case a traveler needed a place to sleep. It wasn't much - two cots, a stout oak pedestal table on which was placed a basin of water, and a mirror hanged on the cracked drywall. But it looked clean and, to Martin's worn body, more than comfortable enough. Martin thanked the woman again, and she made a gesture that meant "don't mention it" before bidding them good night and leaving them.

Jon immediately slumped against his staff, and Martin automatically initiated a step in his direction, ready to catch him. Jon waved him off.

"I'm fine," he rasped. "I just... need to get cleaned up. And - rest."

He dropped his cloak on one of the bed. Martin sat down on the other and put down his bag, observing from the corner of his eye as Jon shed several layers of dark shirts until all that remained was a linen shirt stained with dried blood. At this point he glanced up, hesitant; Martin immediately averted his gaze, starting to rifle through his pack to hide his embarrassment. He tried really hard to ignore the sound of Jon taking off the last layer and walking to the basin - failing, for a bit, before shaking his head and looking for something, _anything_ that would distract him from the idea of his half-naked travelling companion.

His fingers met the block of paper he'd packed, just in case - one never knew when inspiration might come, even if in retrospect he'd been far too anxious to think about poetry on his way to slay the Archivist. He pulled it out, going after the pencil after. He'd been worried the lead might have broken during the scuffle, and he signed in relief when he found it intact in its case.

Martin had intended to draft a letter to warn Tim and Sasha, but he made the mistake to look up when he heard Jon swear softly under his breath - and immediately, metaphors about about paper-thin skin and wolves in sheep's clothing flooded his mind. Now more than ever, he had trouble reconciling the image of the Archivist - a centuries-old creature, made strong by its confidence in its own unfailing and infinite knowledge - and Jon's brittle frame, shoulders bending under the weight of that same knowledge, skin marred by too many scars to count - not quite a man, perhaps, but definitely not the steadfast monster people assumed him to be.

Martin took his eyes away again with some difficulty and forced himself to open his notebook, absentmindedly smoothing out a page before holding the tip of the pencil above the blank surface, waiting for the inspiration to strike.

Naturally, the _wrong_ kind of inspiration chose this moment to show up, and before he could stop himself, the words were standing boldly on the page, a testament of his straying thoughts:

 

 _Standing on edges - old and new, cold accountant and true believer,_  
_The equilibrium between two opposing natures hard to maintain_  
_He tiptoes the line, and both extremes would be his end -_  
_A downfall, or his release._

 

Martin stared down at the sentences on the paper, horribly self-conscious even though no one was around to judge him but himself. Nothing good would come from the irresistible draw he felt toward Jon - least of all poetry, apparently. He carefully removed the page from the book, folded it and tucked it away in his backpack to be disposed off later, and tried to focus back on writing a letter to his colleagues.

He hadn't gone much further than "Dear Sasha and Tim" - his mind drawn back time and time again toward the enigma that was the Archivist - when Jon came back to his cot. On the edge of his vision, Martin could vaguely make him out rifling through the shirts he'd left there, perhaps trying to find the least stained with blood. He hummed disapprovingly for a while, picked one up, put it on. Martin distractedly nibbled on the tip of his pencil, staring blankly at the empty letter on his lap.

Jon said, "Martin," and Martin jumped, prepared to be told off for his indecent leering. Instead, he found Jon looking almost as anxious as he himself felt - gaze jumping from Martin's face to somewhere next to him then back again. He was wringing the linen shirt between his fingers, the once-white fabric now a bloody rag. He looked much smaller, without his multiple layers of clothing - looked like someone fragile, someone who'd had to fend for themselves for too long and was now running out of resources, about to collapse if no one came to hold them together. Not for the first time, Martin felt in his chest a surge of protectiveness fierce enough to stop the breath in his lungs.

"Yes?" he finally croaked out, and Jon's eyes jumped to him. They looked impossibly dark in the flickering light of the lonely oil lamp illuminating the room.

"I don't think Nikola will visit you again tonight," he said, and Martin instinctively reached up to the swallow cut on his neck. Jon made a face as if he'd just bitten into a lemon, which Martin had started to recognize as guilt, then continued: "However, if anything strange happens during the night - wake me up. I might only be an Archivist," he added with a self-depreciating snort, "but I am still better equipped to deal with my peers."

"I don't think you're _just_ an Archivist," Martin blurted out; Jon blinked at him confusedly. "I mean, for those people earlier - you weren't _just_ anything. You were a mythical creature, something they feared and respected. I think-"

Martin cut himself short, embarrassed by his sudden lapse into more inappropriate poetry. Jon looked confused some more, then pleased, then self-conscious.

"Oh."

"I think what I'm saying is," Martin mumbled, struggling to save face. "You are- just fine."

He cringed outwardly at that; luckily, Jon didn't seem to have noticed, as he was seemingly trying to set fire to the rag in his hands with his gaze alone. An awkward silence dragged on, before Martin shoved his notebook and his pen back into his bag.

"We should- I should probably- get ready for bed."

"Yes. Yes," Jon approved, sounding relieved. "We should. Long road tomorrow, hmhm."

Once Martin was tucked under the thick wool cover, Jon padded over to the lamp and extinguished it. Darkness fell over the room, as did complete silence. For an awful moment, Martin felt ice spread through his limbs as he half-expected a white mask to emerge from the shadows. Instead, he heard a rustle of fabric as Jon wrapped himself in his own blanket, and Martin found two subdued point of light directed at him - barely an idea of light, really, more like an echo of the extinguished flame. The sight would certainly have chilled the blood in his veins before; now, it meant someone was watching over him.

Martin slept in peace.

* * *

The next morning didn't wake him up by the mean of claws around his throat, which was a definite improvement. Martin opened his eyes on a gloomy room still bathed in blue shadows; the one window displayed a slowly lightening sky, dirty pink creeping up above the treeline. He estimated it to be about half past five and, considering the stillness of the woolly lump in the second bed, most likely too early to leave yet. Martin turned over to make himself more comfortable. He shivered when the wet morning air insinuated itself below the blankets, but resolutely closed his eyes. God knew what the day ahead would throw at him; he needed all the rest he could get now.

Half an hour of tossing and turning later, he had to face the facts: sleep wasn't an option anymore. There was simply - too much to think of, too many concerns pressing down on him - the fate of the country, maybe that of the world - his worry for his friends and family - the unanticipated, possibly inappropriate, _surely_ unwanted feelings that tightened their grip around his heart every time Jon did something unexpected, or endearing, or _human_ -

Martin ended up pushing the blankets off of him. He slipped his shoes on and grabbed his bag, deciding that there wasn't going to be a better moment to write that damn letter.

He went down the stairs, cautiously keeping a hand on the wall next to him to avoid tripping in the half-light. A couple of lamps had already been lit in the main room, which looked as clean as it possibly could, ready for a new wave of patrons. There wasn't anyone in sight, but Marin could hear some noise coming from an arched doorway behind the oaken stretch of the bar - the kitchen, he guessed. His steps guided him to the table Jon and he had shared the night before, despite it being rather poorly lit. He retrieved his writing utensils from his bag, opened his notebook, and tried to figure out a way to signal to Sasha and Tim that the capital wasn't safe anymore in a way that wouldn't make Elias suspicious should he come into possession of the correspondence.

 _Dear Sasha and Tim,_ said the words on the paper. _I think I'm falling in love,_ he didn't add, because it wasn't the topic, and because the last thing he wanted if he ever saw them again was being relentlessly teased for it. He chewed at his bottom lip, trying to get his mind back on track and away from the sleeping Archivist - then, with as much resolve as he could muster, he put the graphite point to the paper.

 _My expedition went well, and I found what I was looking for - though it turned out to be more complex than I expected; I need some more time to study it._ (It wasn't even a lie, depending on how they'd interpret "study"; he _did_ want to get to know Jon more, after all.) _I am deeply thankful for your help so far, but I would like to know your opinion on what I've found. Could you meet me in Oxbridge in a couple of days? No need to tell Elias about it, it shouldn't take long._

Martin read the short missive again, trying to think of anything else that might properly communicate the urgency of the situation. In the end, he added "take care" to the bottom of the letter, in a way he hoped would be meaningful enough that they would get the idea. He detached the sheet from the rest of the book and was carefully folding it when the owner of the place came out of the kitchen. She was whipping her hands on a towel, looking around for her next task; she jumped a bit when her eyes fell on Martin, but then relaxed and offered him a smile.

"Morning. I hope the room was alright?" she asked as she approached. She spoke a bit sluggishly, still exhausted from the previous night despite her amiable facade.

"Ah - yes, thank you," said Martin, fussing with the letter. "It was, uh, really nice of you to let us stay for free."

"Oh, of course." The woman stopped in front of him, leaning against the table behind her. "It's not everyday we get to see an actual Archivist, it's the least I could do."

Martin perked up, curious, and cleared his throat.

"So, uh, it's something that happens, then? Archivists visiting villages and... being told... stories?"

The woman chuckled softly. "The way you put it makes it sound like it happens often. It doesn't. We haven't heard about the Archivist travelling in years - decades even, maybe. They belong to the legends, for the most part."

"And you still immediately recognized him as the Archivist," Martin noted. "How could you be so sure?"

She gave him a look, the kind of kindness verging on pity people from the city usually gave to outsiders unfamiliar with their ways of living.

"You've never lived in the countryside, have you, love? It's not like life in a fortified town, with guards keeping a lookout for anything dangerous. We're not the rulers, here: the land is. We have to live by its law, and accept to share it with the shades. We can't ignore what you'd call old wives' tale, because they all contain some part of truth that could save our life one day. We don't have the luxury not to believe."

Martin looked away, uncomfortable. He couldn't deny that one of the main reason they knew so little of monsters was because the Institute insisted on a scientific approach; old folk tales were recorded as well, but never considered an acceptable source - filled with exaggeration and superstition, unfit to be the basis of any trustworthy information.

"So yes," the woman continued. "A traveler stumbles into my establishment with an eye shining at their throat, and exposes a man's secret in front of all - everyone already suspected, honestly, but an ordinary foreigner couldn't have known. What am I supposed to believe? Are they just _really_ lucky, or are they one of the creatures my grandma used to tell me stories about?"

"I -" Martin looked at her, sheepish, and conceded: "It makes sense, yeah. I'm sorry, I'm not used to - all of that."

"Have you been traveling with them for long?"

"Just a couple of days. It's all - really new to me, as I said."

She gave him an inquisitive look, tilted her head on the side.

"I've rarely heard about the Archivist picking a human companion. How does that happen?"

She probably didn't mean anything other than _"how does one end up traveling with such an unusual partner",_ but Martin felt his cheeks grow red.

"Oh, uh. It's - not a very interesting story. I did something stupid, and now he's - protecting me? I guess? I - it's not a situation I ever imagined I'd find myself in, honestly - a complete accident."

The woman focused on a point below his left eye, and pulled the rag from her belt.

"You do look like you could use some protection. Did you know you've got a cut right there? Here, let me-"

Without waiting for Martin to react, she moistened the fabric with the tip of her tongue, and scrubbed away the dried blood. Martin had entirely forgotten about the notch inflicted by the Stranger. He stiffened, but let her take care of it; the gesture, simple and maternal, made his heart ache in all the expected ways.

"Thank you," he said numbly when she drew back. "It's, uh. It would have been a lot worse without Jon. It's fine."

A pause, as Martin fidgeted with the letter between his fingers; then, the woman remarked softly:

"You seem to really care about them."

Martin froze, chastising himself for being so transparent - but, before he could try to brush it off, they heard steps quickly coming down the stairs. Martin instinctively shoved the letter back into his notebook, right before Jon stumbled in the common room. He was fully dressed in his layers of black cloth again, his hair in disarray, looking wildly around. He looked surprisingly alert, given what Martin had come to expect from the Archivist in the short time he'd known him. The expression on his face - something akin to panic - turned into relief as soon as he saw Martin, then into a carefully neutral mask as he nodded in their direction.

"Good morning." He stood there, back ramrod straight, chest heaving, for a few moments; then he blurted out, somewhat accusingly: "Your bag was gone."

 _He thought I'd left,_ Martin realized. A conflicted feeling of warmth spread in his chest, and he firmly avoided looking at the woman as he stuttered:

"Oh - I, uh, didn't want to wake you up. I - sorry."

Jon didn't answer - frozen in place, staring at Martin as if he wasn't quite sure he was really there. The owner of the tavern ended up breaking the silence with a clap of her hands that made Martin jump in his chair.

"Right! Who wants breakfast? You need to have breakfast before you go on your way again."

"I - We wouldn't want to bother you more than necessary," Martin mumbled, looking away from the unnaturally still Archivist.

"Nonsense." The woman was already walking toward the kitchen. "I'd be a terrible host if I didn't offer you the most important meal of the day. Wait a second, will you?"

Then she was gone. Jon seemed to defrost, taking a long breath before stepping forward.

“I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye,” Martin blurted out once Jon was sitting across from him. Jon gave him a guarded glance - then imperceptibly softened up.

“I believe you,” he said. Then, mechanically running a hand through his messy hair, he signed: “I just got - worried.”

His expression was one of stunned worry. Martin hesitated, thinking that maybe he should say something - but nothing came to him, so he stayed quiet until the woman came back with a steaming pot of tea, a couple of chipped cups, and bowls of porridge. She tried to chat a bit more, her eyes inquisitively lingering on Jon, but quickly realized he was in no mood to talk, and left again to take care of her business.

Jon and Martin ate in an awkward silence for a bit, before Jon cleared his throat, designating the notebook beside Martin's elbow:

"What is this? You already had it out yesterday."

He spoke slowly, carefully; Martin didn't feel the now-familiar shiver of the compulsion running along his spine, and he was grateful of Jon for making the effort of reining his powers in.

"I, ah - I always keep some paper on me," he said. "In case the inspiration shows up. I write poetry?" he clarified, when Jon blinked at him questioningly, and he felt rather silly to confess this to a being who certainly knew more poetry than Martin could ever read in his lifetime.

"Oh," Jon said, looking surprised, then thoughtful. "Yes, you do strike me as the type, now that you mention it."

"What does that mean?" Martin asked, not sure whether to feel offended or pleased. _Definitely_ pleased, if he understood Jon's small smile correctly.

"You look like someone who sees beauty in everything," Jon explained - then he looked slightly panicked for a second, and grabbed his cup of tea, making a valiant attempt to hide behind it. The word "adorable" sprang to Martin's mind before he could stop it, and he decided to imitate Jon's strategy.

The rest of the meal went by in a shy silence they both were reluctant to break - their eyes occasionally meeting, splitting again, in an awkward flit that left Martin feeling as if his heart had been filled with liquid light.

Not a bad feeling, all things considered.

* * *

 Martin profusely thanked the bar owner - had to decline her insistent offer of more provision, but ended up accepting two slices of honey cake - and then they were on their way again. As before, Jon seemed to know exactly where he was going, his strides assured on the gravelly road. The sky had grown a dull grey in the time they'd taken to finish breakfast, and Martin fervently hoped they'd manage to find shelter before it started raining, if the clouds did end up bursting.

They retraced their steps for a bit, going back to a crossing and taking a different direction. Martin kept throwing paranoid looks around, waiting for a pursuer to jump out of the bushes at any time; Jon kept his eyes straight ahead, but his shoulders were drawn tight around his ears, indicating he expected more or less the same.

It took Martin close to an hour to remember the slightly crumpled letter in his pack; the village was by now too far away to hope sending it from there. Martin silently cursed himself.

"Jon?" he said, and the Avatar gave a grunt of acknowledgment. "Do you know where we're stopping tonight?"

Jon gave him a bewildered look. "We just left. Do you need to rest again?"

Martin drew himself up, taking offense at the implication that he had no stamina.

"No! I just  wanted to send a letter to Sasha and Tim. My friends," he reminded Jon. "To warn them. They have to know who they're working with."

"It's too dangerous," Jon declared categorically. "Don't."

Martin bristled, taken aback by Jon's categorical tone. "Excuse me?"

"Don't do it," Jon repeated, barely looking at him. "Don't write that letter. Don't warn them. You'll only endanger them."

"What? They deserve to know what they got into, at least! So that they know to be careful!"

Jon rounded on him, and Martin had to stop suddenly to avoid running into him.

"It will not help them. Elias will know immediately that they're aware something is wrong, and he'll kill them rather than let them endanger his plans. Do _not_ do it."

Rattled by Jon's steely words and gaze, Martin looked away. His irritation had cooled down instantly under the Archivist's assurance, and for an instant he considered pulling the letter out of his bag to shred it - but he quickly abandoned the idea. They needed to know, so they could get away before anything sinister happened to them.

Martin glanced back to Jon, still unblinkingly staring him in the face, and shrugged.

"Alright," he said, shrinking on himself a bit - trying to look smaller, more subdued. It was easier than he would have liked by far. "I - won't tell them about Elias. I promise."

Jon squinted inquisitively, and Martin almost held his breath, hoping Jon wouldn't pick up the unspoken implication that Martin was _still_ going to send them a letter - which, after all, did not actually talk about Elias' plans. In the end, whatever the Archivist found in Martin's face seemed to satisfy him. He nodded curtly, then turned around, getting back on the road.

"Good," he said simply; Martin signed, and followed.

* * *

 They managed to reach their destination as the sun approached noon; the clouds had parted just in time to allow the sun to cast its rays over the wetland, giving it a deceptively welcoming aura. A light fog rolled over the surface of the stagnant water; dark-barked, skinny leafless trees broke through the mist here and there, surrounded by coarse aquatic weeds. As they came closer, Martin noticed how strangely still the air was. No rustling of leaves, no screeching of insects; the marsh felt suspended in time, untouched by the years that had gone by since it had swallowed an entire army.

And it might as well be the case, he realized as they entered its limits. Martin was looking around, trying to detect a sign of life in the landscape - but finding no birds in the trees, no frogs in the water. What was in the water, though, he recognized with a growing horror, were dark humanoid shapes clad in metal - chain mails and weapons shining dimly just under the surface, pale faces twisted in horror. Martin found himself afraid they might be about to jump out of the water and start screaming in his face, and closed his arms around himself.

"Don't worry," Jon said suddenly, and Martin jumped. "They won't get back up anytime soon."

Martin slowed down to stare at one of the bodies - a young man, a _boy,_ even, eyes wide open and mouth agape - and let out a shuddering breath.

"They don't - look dead. God, are they even...? What if they're still _alive?"_

Jon gave the smallest shrug, and kept going forward, not bothering to look back.

"We can't help them. This isn't my domain, and you're only human. Let's keep going."

Martin bit back his exasperation. Of course there wasn't anything he could do by himself, and Jon wasn't all-powerful, but his cold refusal to even consider it, to take a moment to pity those poor drowned fools just felt - wrong. Nevertheless, Martin clenched his teeth, and forced himself not to look into the water from then on.

They soon arrived to some sort of clearing: a large circle of dry land surrounded by gnarled shrubs, in the center of which stood a large stone structure. Martin had read about those in books, had seen drawings of them, but it was the first time he'd gotten to see one. It roughly looked like a doorway, with two large pillars deeply embedded in the ground holding up a massive lintel. All three rocks were carved with swirling patterns.

The longer Martin looked at them, the more they looked as if they were moving. He blinked, feeling the beginning of a migraine press against his eyeballs; he glanced at the spirals again, and this time they stayed still. He shook his head; whatever he thought he'd seen must have been an illusion.

Jon stopped in front of the doorway, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. Martin saw his grip on his staff tighten, betraying his agitation; Jon knocked the end of it against the stone twice, as if he was knocking on someone's door. Nothing happened for several minutes, and the silence grew as thick as the fog at their feet; Martin didn't dare to break it to ask what they were waiting for, choosing to believe that Jon knew what he was doing.

Then four fingers - sharp, long, too long, _impossibly_ so - appeared at the edge of the doorway. They dragged across the granite, scoring deep gouges into it as if it were butter. The noise they produced made Martin grind his teeth and closed his eyes in pain; when he opened them again, a man was sitting nonchalantly on the top stone beam.

Or perhaps, Martin thought as the man's wide smile made the hair on his neck rise, _not_ a man. He - it - they? - gave Jon a bizarre look, halfway through one somebody would give to an old friend - and one they'd give to a long-expected meal. Its grin stretched, and it leaned over slightly, its eyes eagerly fixed on Jon's stiff silhouette.

"Hello, Archivist," it said; its voice, grating like rusted metal, made Martin wince. "It's been...so long. Where have you been?"


	6. mirrors and clay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Encounter with the creature called Michael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided I'm not apologizing for the one-chapter-a-month thing anymore
> 
> I will, however, apologize for that one being so long
> 
> Aslo OH HECK MAN THERE'S FANART NOW from lho [here](https://twitter.com/LhoBrockhoff/status/1114211706333474819) and from strengthviii [here](https://kalgalen.tumblr.com/post/184875083533/uhhh-i-may-be-drawing-art-for-ur-tma-sleeping) uwu

It looked human. However, there were no doubts in Martin’s mind that the thing perched in front of them was so far removed from humanity it couldn't possibly be called a “he”. It had long blond hair, gentle eyes, and a smile that showed too many teeth to be considered friendly; it was moderately handsome, but its features kept shifting imperceptibly in a way that made Martin nauseous if he stared at it for too long - just like the spirals carved into the monument it was perched on.

Jon rolled his eyes.

"Michael. I see you're still fond of your... theatrics."

The being laughed; a shiver of discomfort ran through Martin as the sound _split,_ scattering in the deadly silent marsh.

"I don't often have the occasion to show off, you know. Most people avoid my home, and I am too lonely not to put on a show for the rare guests that do visit me. Moreover -"

It dropped from the rock, its shape rippling abnormally as if its body was made of a very viscous fluid. Martin instinctively took a step back, his discomfort growing with each jolting step the creature took in their direction; Jon stood his ground, not moving a muscle, even when the thing - Michael - stopped in front of him, bending down so that their faces were mere inches away from each other.

"Moreover," it continued, "you know the importance of making a memorable entrance as well as I do, Archivist."

Martin saw Jon's shoulders rise and drop in a studied shrug.

"Maybe so."

Michael laughed again. Martin fought his instinct to flee with every fiber of his being, failing not to take another step back. Michael's eyes immediately jumped to him, and Martin froze.

"And what is _this?"_ it asked, stepping around Jon to come take a closer look at Martin. The tips of its impossibly long fingers twitched like spider legs, and even though Martin usually liked arachnids, the sight turned his knees to jelly.

"Hello!" he squeaked. "Martin Blackwood, I -"

"Be quiet, Martin," Jon snapped, and Martin closed his mouth, only too happy to comply. Jon strode over, placing himself between Martin and Michael. He glared at the other Avatar.

"He's not important to you, Michael. Ignore him."

Michael's eyes slid from Jon to Martin, then back again; from this close, Martin could see its irises were two tight, hypnotic spirals.

"He's not important to me _yet,_ " it said slowly, teasingly. "But he's important to you. Am I correct?"

Jon's face stayed perfectly inexpressive when he answered: "No. Not at all."

Through the haze of terror, Martin felt a pang of hurt; Jon's face, frozen in a mask of impassibility,  didn't betray any particular emotion . Did he really mean that? He'd demonstrated that he cared about Martin several times before - he had _thrown himself in front of a blade_ for him. This was most likely only a ruse destined to deflect Michael's attention.

At least, Martin really hoped so.

"Mmmh." Michael did end up looking away from Martin, giving Jon a wide, toothy grin. "I am pleased to hear that. Fraternizing with the enemy rarely ends well - for either party. How is your friend doing, by the way?"

Jon gave it a murderous look, and articulated from behind clenched teeth: "She's doing fine, thank you for asking."

"Of course." Michael gave Jon a sweet smile, and for a beat he - _it_ \- didn't look anything but human. "She is one of us now, after all. Thanks to you."

"Michael -" Jon growled as a warning, and Michael laughed, dissipating any momentary illusion Martin might have had about its nature.

The creature sauntered away. Martin's eyes were drawn downward; twisted, complex shapes took form in the grass every time its feet came into contact with the ground, as if its sole presence was enough to bend reality around it in convoluted and upsetting manners.

"But enough _niceties._ I know how uncomfortable you are with those. Why did you come to me, Archivist? What can the Distortion do for you?"

"I - _we_ need to disappear. We need something that'll help us escape the Eye, and we can hardly go to the Stranger for this, since I can't trust any of them not to sell us to Nikola. And - well..."

"And we have a history," Michael cut him off in a sing-song tone. "Of course. What do you have to offer in return?"

Jon clenched his teeth, and he gave a sidelong glance to Martin. For an awful moment, Martin thought he was about to be offered as a sacrifice.

"I don't have anything that could interest you for now," Jon said finally, looking back toward Michael. "Consider it a... favor. I'll owe you one back, whenever you need it."

The sentence seemed to pain Jon, given the way his face twisted into a frown as he spoke. Michael, however, perked up; it slowly turned around, its lips stretched into an impish smile.

"A _debt,_ Archivist? Oh my, your situation _really_ must be dire. Are you sure you can afford it? Invisibility for yourself - and your companion." Its eyes glided over to Martin, rapacious. "You could lower the price - and pay it right away - if you just left him here, you know."

Jon gave a flat, empty chuckle. "And what would you do with him? He isn't useful to you. He'd get in your way."

Casually, Michael advanced toward them again; its attention was once again entirely focused on Martin, keen and hungry. Without thinking, Martin grabbed his own wrist, digging his nails in to keep from panicking.

Well. From panicking _more_ than he already was, in any case.

"Why do you want to keep him so much, then?" Michael questioned, raising its bony fingers and setting them delicately under Martin's chin. "I'm sure I'll find a use for him, if you're finding him so fascinating for no particular reason."

The razor-sharp claws brushed against his skin, and Martin was surprised - with some distance, through the ferocious terror gnawing on his insides - when he didn't immediately start bleeding. The worst thing, though - the worst thing was Jon, who simply huffed in annoyance, as if Martin wasn't under serious threat of having his throat slit with a simple, careless flick of Michael's wrist.

"My reasons are my own, Michael. He's not payment, and that's all you need to know."

Michael dropped its hand, pouting. It was still staring straight into Martin's eyes, as if trying to unwrap him like a gift with its mind alone.

"What's the point of asking for something you will readily give up?" Jon didn't look impressed; Michael let out an over-dramatic sigh. "Very well. A favor for a favor. Protection against seeking eyes - hard to observe someone when they're not where you thought they were. Or are they?"

Michael chuckled to itself as it walked over to the edge of the clearing. It knelt next to the nearest pond and dipped its hand in the water; the surface was barely disturbed by the intrusion, retaining its mirror-like evenness. The Avatar looked as if it was feeling around for something, then straightened back up. It turned around, holding two glistening medallions.

"Lost men's talismans to keep you lost," it explained, and strolled back to them. Jon took the necklace that was handed to him without a single moment of hesitation; Martin stared at his, repulsed by the idea of wearing the property of a soldier two centuries dead. Michael thrust it encouragingly in his direction, quite evidently delighted by his disgust. "Take it, Beloved. Or your Archivist will have to leave you behind."

Martin didn't notice Jon's start in his periphery, and barely even paid attention to the endearment. He cautiously reached for the talisman, keeping his eyes firmly on Michael's face in case it all of a sudden decided it wanted to gut Martin instead. Michael only tilted its head to the side, and grinned.

The silver chain was cold to the touch, and a bit wet and slimy from its prolonged stay in the water. Martin almost dropped it when Michael let go; it felt like its links were writhing under his fingers, twisting in impossible shapes - but when he looked more closely at it, it didn't seem anything out of the ordinary.

"We don't have all day, Martin," Jon said brusquely. "Get on with it."

Martin glared at him, swallowing back a comment about how he'd like to take any precautions he could to avoid getting tricked into putting on a cursed amulet - not that many precautions were available to him in the first place. He half-expected something horrible to happen as soon as the chain closed around his neck. But after a few seconds of wary silence, he had to recognize the facts: if something horrible could happen because of the dead man's jewelry, it would have already.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Alright."

Jon and he spoke at the same time, on a similarly relieved tone - though Jon hid his own relief immediately, before nodding stiffly at Michael.

“Thank you for your help. We will be leaving now.”

“Of course.” Michael smiled fondly, running the tip of its index along Jon’s cheek before turning away. “I'll come collect my reward in due time.”

It stopped in front of the stone doorway and glanced back; its eyes landed on Martin, indecipherable.

“I hope that by then, you'll have accepted to part with it.”

Then it stepped through the doorway, and disappeared around a pillar.

* * *

 The path out of the marsh took place in complete silence. Jon seemed to be lost deep in thought, and Martin’s mind was racing.

Jon had seemed so _cold_ , back there. So distant and alien - which, while it made sense given he was not human, was also violently at odds with the caring (if prickly) individual Martin had come to know during the past couple of days. And it raised an important question: which one was the real Jon? He hadn't seemed ready to sell Martin in exchange for his own safety, but that wasn't saying much. It might have been - possessiveness. Defending property. _Travelling with a meal,_ the Stranger had said.

Martin stared at Jon’s black-clad shoulders in front of him, wondering if the Avatar would chase after him if he decided to take off running.

Suddenly, Jon’s reaction in the morning didn't seem so heartwarming anymore.

They left the Mirror Marshes, following the path north until they got back onto a main road. Jon still wasn't speaking, following an itinerary only he needed to know, and Martin - Martin had to many things to speak of. He had to interrogate Jon, just to make sure he wasn't mistaking about the Avatar's intentions; uncertainty was weighing heavily on his chest, and speaking the question out loud - _can I trust you?_ \- would be the only thing able to lift that burden off his chest.

Now, if only he could think of a sensible way to bring it up -

"Talk, Martin," Jon said suddenly without slowing down nor looking back. "You've got something on your mind. I can hear it from here."

Martin's mouth instantly went dry as he wondered what, exactly, Jon might have "heard". He shrugged, even though he knew Jon couldn't see him.

Or perhaps he actually _could,_ for all Martin knew.

"I just - I realized how out of place I am? I barely understand what you're talking about when you speak to another - Avatar. And they don't consider me as anything but prey, right? I - maybe wanting to come with you was a mistake."

He'd barely reached the end of his sentence before Jon stopped dead in his tracks and twisted around, his eyes narrowed. Martin stopped as well, and took a step back for good measure.

"Are you saying you are... afraid? Didn't you want to prove yourself? Show Elias you could be trusted?"

Martin swallowed hard, taken aback by the sharp edge in Jon's words, the challenge in his eyes. He licked his lips, looked away, already regretting bringing up the issue.

Although - why would Jon be that sensitive about it if he was innocent?

"I - Maybe I am! Maybe I'm afraid!" he sputtered, avoiding Jon's gaze - which was growing harder, colder, more difficult to bear with every passing second. "I don't - I don't really _know_ you, Jon! I met you two days ago, and I almost got killed at least once, if I don't count that... weird... thing... that happened with Michael earlier!"

"What did you think would happen, Martin?" Jon spat. "You're not sitting in a library anymore. You _chose_ this."

"It doesn't mean I agreed to stay blind while you lead me wherever you want! I don't know if I can trust you, and you haven't given me any reason to!"

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Jon froze.

The silence stretched for a long time, icy.

"You - alright," Jon said slowly. "You don't trust me. That was to be expected, I suppose. How could you trust a monster?"

He gave a bitter chuckle. Martin tightened his jaws over the promise that wanted to jump out - _I want to, though -_ and waited.

"You want to know something amusing, Martin? You want to know what I find ironic in _you_ not trusting _me?_ " Jon didn't wait for an answer, and forged on: "I don't have any reason to trust you, either. In fact, everything in me knows - I _know_ I shouldn't trust you."

"Me?" Martin protested, shocked. "What did I ever do that could pass as dubious?"

"That letter," Jon said, and Martin froze. "Is that why you wanted to send it so badly?"

"What - what do you mean?"

"Don't play dull, it doesn't fit you. That letter you wrote to your friends this morning - the one you hid before I got down. You lied."

"About - what? Writing it? Are you upset because I wanted to warn the people I care about that they are in danger?"

"Are they?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are they even in any real danger, or am I just a subject to you? What was it again - _need more time to study it?_ You wanted _their opinion on the subject?_ "

Martin inhaled sharply, ice settling in his stomach when he recognized his own words.

"How do you even -"

"- Know what you wrote? Come one, Martin. Knowing is what I _do."_

"No - no, you misunderstood."

"Have I now?"

"Yes! I - listen, I know you're against it, but they need to know what kind of danger they're in. They're my _friends,_ Jon, I can't simply hope Elias doesn't kill them anyway because he got suspicious! If he does, I -” Martin’s shoulders sagged as he realized his coworkers would never have been put in this situation if it hadn't been for his own foolish expedition. He swallowed past the knot in his throat, and pleaded softy: “If he kills them, it will be my fault, Jon. At the very least, I have to try.”

Jon was still looking at him with razor-sharp attention, though he also seemed marginally less agitated than before.

“How about that line about - _studying_ me? Don't lie, I will know.”

Martin felt his face grow hot, and he chewed on his lip.

“I - hum. I couldn't tell the truth, right? It's just… code, in case someone intercepted the letter.”

“Right.” Jon tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “You do want to study me, though. It wasn't all code.”

Oh, was he going to make Martin say it? Martin winced, and looked away.

“You are - interesting. I've never met anyone like you. Not - I don't mean 'a monster'. Just - as a person.” Jon’s silence only got more dubious, and Martin signed. “For God’s sake, Jon -” He stepped forward, feeling terrible for a moment when Jon jerked back. Nevertheless, Martin grabbed his hands and placed them on either side of his own head, staring Jon in the eye. “Just _Look_ , then.”

He felt a bit _hurt_ that Jon would rifle through his mind without even asking; the fact that the Archivist had only managed to see the things that made Martin a potential danger to him was even worse.

Jon was looking up at him, his lips pressed tightly together - afraid.

“Please Look, Jon. _See,”_ Martin insisted, gripping tightly the Archivist's wrists.

Jon let out a shaky breath; then his eyes turned cold and distant. Martin didn't _feel_ him looking inside his head - not physically. The sensation was akin to having someone's hand hovering over his bare skin - not an actual invasion, but definitely something intimate enough that it left him more than a little uncomfortable. Jon's hands on his temples were as dry and cold as the stare he was drilling through Martin's eyes. His expression didn't betray what he was Seeing, and Martin belatedly thought about the things he might want to hide from Jon - the attempt at a poem crumpled in his bag, for example, or the way his heart had started beating a bit quicker when he'd grabbed Jon's wrists.

After a long moment, Jon's severe expression slackened, and his gaze recovered a glint of humanity. He looked at Martin as if he was seeing him for the first time.

"Oh...I -" he started - then paused to gather his thoughts, looking away. His hold on Martin's head softened, but he didn't step away yet. "I am. Sorry. I thought -"

He sighed; his body tilted ever-so-slightly towards Martin's.

"There's so much - so many things that are uncertain, since I woke up. I am supposed to Know all, and I've never been so lost. I - I didn't think I'd wake up, you know? I knew what was coming, but I never thought someone would be able to -"

He cut himself short again, breathing in deeply, and turned his gaze back on Martin. Those were tired eyes, reflecting a grit slowly dulled by long trials. Those were the eyes of a drowning man, or of a tracked animal. Without thinking, Martin squeezed Jon's wrist. The Archivist continued:

"But then you were there, and Elias - he might not have sent you, but everything always turns out his way. I want to trust you more than I've ever wanted to trust anybody - I don't have the _choice._ But I am still... _terrified_ that this is some game he's playing on me - on us. If you really are -" He stopped short, dropping the end of his idea as if it were a burning coal. " - then I can't risk you getting hurt. Again."

His thumb stroke across Martin's cheekbone, over the healing cut. The air in Martin's lungs grew thin, leaving him light-headed and leaning into the touch. Time seemed to slow to a crawl - the wind hushed, the trees still - then, bit by bit, as if it pained him to do so, Jon stepped away.

"I apologize," he said, having recovered his usual countenance. "For having made you feel like you were out of place, or -" he winced, looked away. "For having made you fear for your safety with me. I'll try sharing my plans, in the future. I will - trust you, and I hope that you can trust me in return."

It was clearly a difficult promise to make - a genuine leap of faith Jon was attempting, for Martin's benefit. Martin clenched his now-empty hands at his sides, wanting to reach out once again but not daring to.

Instead - as his doubts melted like snow in the sun in the face of Jon’s distress - he nodded.

“Of course.”

* * *

 They walked for the remainder of the day, avoiding townships and only resting in half-hidden areas away from the road. Elias would be looking for them harder than ever, Jon explained. They couldn't afford to have anyone witness their passing until they got further away. Martin, who hadn't been used to long walks before the past few days, agreed - but he would have agreed to a warm cup of tea and a chair to sit on even more fervently. Instead, all he had were rapidly dwindling supplies of water, and slightly damp tree stumps.

They didn't speak much, even during those rare breaks, and for once Martin was grateful for the silence - his lungs couldn't take both chatting and walking. Jon didn't seem as affected by the effort as Martin was, though twin spots of pink had started to appear on his cheeks.

His eyes occasionally drifted toward Martin, making sure he was keeping up. He tried to keep Martin right next to him, now - not offering more breaks than he judged strictly necessary, but slowing down his pace and even, on one occasion, keeping his hand on Martin's elbow for a few steps.

It almost felt tranquil, despite the fact that they were running - hiking - for their lives. Jon's quietness, his frequent glances and rare touches, all felt like a long apology - or the Avatar trying to come up with one.

"I - I wanted to say sorry," Jon finally said during one of their breaks - the last of the day, judging by the way the sun half-disappeared behind the horizon. Martin squeezed the little water that was left in the skin, and hummed questioningly. Jon, sitting cross-legged on a flat stone, was not looking at him. "Again. I - overreacted. I shouldn't have - I tend to, uh, get a bit paranoid? When all knowledge is a stray thought away, not knowing something feels awfully like being lied to."

Martin wiped his mouth on his sleeve and tilted his head, trying to understand what Jon meant - and to avoid commenting on the generosity of the _bit paranoid_ part.

"I am... confused," he admitted after a bit. His voice cracked from disuse and fatigue, and he cleared his throat before continuing: "You said your job was _knowing._ How can you ignore some things?"

Jon uncrossed his legs, stretching them in front of him as he took a deep breath.

"Well, you see - knowledge is like water. Knowledge is an ocean, and I'm stuck in a bubble deep under the waves. Sometimes a droplet or two will ooze through - but if I decide to reach out for a specific droplet, I risk piercing that bubble, and getting crushed under the weight. No one can know everything and stay sane."

"I see," said Martin slowly. "Seems, uh. Unpractical."

Jon snorted - a sound that seemed to surprise them both. The Archivist blinked before glancing shyly at Martin, a lopsided grin dancing on his lips.

"Yes. I suppose you could say that."

Martin smiled back without even thinking about it.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I - I wish you'd been more frank with me from the beginning but I understand why you weren't, so it's - it's fine."

Perhaps he was trying to convince himself as well - but seeing the relieved expression on Jon's face convinced him he'd made the right choice.

It _was_ fine.

* * *

 Their next stop came into view about an hour later; at this point, the sun had sunk below the horizon, and Martin started stumbling on the uneven ground again. Jon was only a shadowy shape next to him, twin stars in the dark when he glanced toward Martin, and a shoulder knocking against his every few steps.

The desire to reach out and to take Jon's hand rose once again in Martin's mind, and once again he dismissed it, keeping his arms stiffly at his sides.

The town in front of them was of the fortified kind, and they arrived right as the gates opened for a late carriage; Martin saw Jon raise a nervous hand to his throat, self-consciously covering the silver eye for a moment before he realized there would be no hiding it from the guards. Martin hesitated, then grasped Jon's arm to make him pause.

"Hold on a second, please."

He dropped his bag from his shoulders, squatting as he rummaged around for a bit before pulling a clean handkerchief from it. It might look inelegant, but it would do the trick.

"What are you - oh," Jon said, surprised, when Martin handed him the square of checkered fabric. "What for?"

Martin gestured toward the brooch. "I thought you might want to cover it up? You looked like you might need it."

"Oh," Jon said again, before getting the idea and taking the offered kerchief. "Thank you."

He folded it in half sideways and tied it around his neck, making sure it covered the eye; the white-and-blue fabric clashed badly with the rest of his outfit, as Martin had expected, but it fell neatly over the symbol, which was all that mattered. It also had the added benefit of softening Jon's strict appearance, and would help him go unnoticed.

"How does this look?" Jon asked, tugging anxiously on the point of the kerchief.

The first word that came to Martin's mind was "charming", but it wasn't one he could say aloud to Jon. He straightened back up, picking up his backpack and dusting his pants - stealing for time, really, as he searched for a more appropriate comment to make.

"It looks just fine," he finally settled on with an encouraging nod.

Once again, Jon's mouth twisted in a little half-smile, and he turned back toward the gates, walking off with a mutter that sounded a lot like _"what would I do without you?"_

Martin's face grew hot - but he had misheard, for sure? he shook his head, and caught up on Jon.

The two guards posted on either side of the gate didn't stop them, though they did give them a suspicious glance. They probably directed that kind of attention toward any travelers coming in so late. Jon started relaxing as soon as they got away from the guards and into the cobbled streets of the city, and he caught Martin's arm to get his attention.

"We should find the post office first," he said, casting a glance toward the center of the town. "We'll have to find an inn after that - your friends won't get your message for a few days, and we're far away enough from the Mirror Marshes that we'll be harder to track down. We can't linger for long, of course, but - we can stay here for a bit, and leave two days from now, if this is alright with you?"

Martin stared at him; his entire body had started cramping from the long hike, and he didn't dare imagine how he'd feel after the night. The idea of getting to rest for an entire day almost made him want to shed a grateful tear, and he nodded vigorously.

" _God,_ yes. My legs are about to fall off and I'd do anything for a chair right about now."

Jon chuckled and, keeping a light touch on Martin's arm, he guided him further into the city. They followed narrow alleyways and wider streets until they reached the square in the center of it.

Over it loomed the local church - spiked, dark and stocky like a sleeping dragon. Martin couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a holy building without it feeling _off,_ somehow. This one was exceptionally bad; its empty windows and sealed doors gave off an undefinable yet distinct feeling of loneliness. Martin averted his eyes immediately, as if staring at the building could attract unwanted attention. He noticed Jon staring at it with a frown on his face. Then they both silently turned away from it, and started looking around for the post office.

The office itself was closed, but a metal receptacle had been included in the wall so that people could drop off their mail anytime. Martin hadn't anticipated having to send a letter; in the end, he fashioned a sloppy envelope out of a blank notebook page, and hoped that Tim wouldn't mind having to pay for the shipping fee.

Right before he dropped the missive through the slot, Jon grabbed his wrist. Martin glanced at him; his lips were set in a thin, anxious line, and his eyes were very dark.

"Are you still sure that's the best course of action?" he asked. His voice contained no judgment. Martin nodded wordlessly, and Jon sighed, taking his hand away. The letter fell into the box with a very final thunk. "I hope you know what you're doing," Jon muttered, and it was all Martin could do not to confess: _"Me too."_

* * *

 There was an inn right across the square, but Jon and Martin wordlessly agreed that they needed a place as far away from that church as possible. They wandered in the streets for a bit, hoping they'd come across a suitable establishment. Martin ended up stopping a man with slumped shoulders and dusty clothes to ask for directions, and the local pointed them back toward the now locked entrance of the city.

Martin barely paid attention to the appearance of the place. It seemed clean enough from a cursory glance, and most of the people sat around the common room and chatting quietly seemed to be travelers as well. They'd have to sleep in a dormitory this time - but if Martin didn't like the idea of sleeping surrounded by strangers, he hated the idea of not sleeping at all even more. He ended up paying for both the beds. The funds he'd taken for a trip he'd thought would be short were rapidly dwindling, but Jon, when Martin turned to him, had only shrugged and patted his empty pockets.

They didn't stay up for long after that; they had a very plain bowl of stew, and went to bed right after. Jon had vanished under both his cape and the scratchy blanket with a mumbled "good night", and Martin had followed suit, his bag tightly clutched against his chest as he quickly drifted off.

* * *

 He dreamed about the church. Pale fog rolled out of its opened doors, silver under the moonlight. The square was empty.

He'd never felt more alone.

* * *

 They woke up the following day to an almost-empty inn. A large majority of the visitors had apparently already departed. Martin grimaced as he stretched, his muscles sore and protesting the exercise from the previous day. Somehow, Jon looked even paler than usual, which he justified by saying he had slept very fitfully; Martin didn't comment, though it brought back to his mind his own distant dreams of fog and loneliness.

After a filling but depressingly tasteless breakfast of porridge and watered-down tea, Jon said something about having to look around for leads. He claimed a seat near the fireplace and initiated a staring contest with the smoldering ashes; Martin sat down nearby and, after a moment, got his notebook out.

Nothing important would be done that day. He could, perhaps, try to pour out some of this warmth that built up in his chest everytime Jon directed one of those crooked smiles at him; maybe then he wouldn't be tempted to blurt them out aloud anymore.

* * *

"We should go further up north next," Jon said that evening over dinner. "After having joined up with your friends, of course," he added when Martin hummed an interrogation around a mouthful of potatoes.

Martin swallowed down his food and nodded.

"Okay. Where does this idea come from?"

"A very carefully selected drop of water. I remembered about this - mercenary? occultist?' Jon waved his fork around, then shrugged. "Gertrude used to work with him. I never met the man myself, but I've heard of him a lot - from people he's saved, and from some other he has... thwarted the plans of."

This sounded promising. Martin nodded again. "Someone who fights for Good."

Jon emitted a noise of doubt. "Let's just say his goals went along with what you'd consider _Good_ so far," he said. "Again - I've never met him, and I don't know his personal motivations. Nor do I care about them, honestly; I only think he might be our best chance to find Gertrude, and to get a clearer picture of what's been going on since I -"

"Hello," a voice interrupted them. Jon snapped his mouth shut, whipping his head toward the newcomers. Martin jumped as well, thought he'd been startled by Jon's reaction more than by the disruption itself.

Two women were standing in front of their table, both clad in practical travel outfits. The one who had spoken wore a faded blue piece of fabric around her head, hiding her hair but framing the severe oval of her face. Her companion, a step behind her, wore her blonde hair in a ponytail and was studying them as if she was cataloging each of their weaknesses.

Jon squinted up at them with a guarded expression; not wanting to seem rude, Martin took over.

"Ah - hello? Can we help you?"

The woman in the headscarf smiled, and Martin shifted nervously in his seat.  It wasn't an unkind smile per se, but it seemed distant, and it didn't reach her eyes.

"Sorry for bothering you," she said, though she didn't bother pretending she actually cared. "May we sit here?"

Martin glanced around, not knowing whether to point out the numerous empty tables or not. The blonde woman didn't wait for him to respond; she pulled up a chair, sat down and drove the point of a knife in the tender wood of the table in one fluid movement. Martin started; the woman grinned at him, and her smile was even less pleasant than her companion's.

"Thank you," she said, carefully enunciating each word; something sharp and dangerous glinted inside her mouth.

 _Two days without being threatened by a monster,_ thought Martin desperately. _That's all I'm asking for._

The other woman grabbed a chair as well and sat down, though with less flourish than the blonde.

"No need for that, Daisy," she told her friend, giving Jon and Martin a calculating look. "We can just talk, first. How does that sound to you?"

The question was directed at them, and Martin glanced at Jon for an indication of how he should react. Jon was very still - barely even breathing, certainly not blinking, holding eye contact with the one who'd spoken last. The woman tilted her head, all pretense of friendliness gone in an instant.

"Right. Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, you're under arrest for conspiring against the Crown. We'd appreciate it if you'd follow us without making a fuss."

"Wait," Martin tried to protest, "what did we even -"

She glared at him, and he cut himself short. "The charges will be read to you before your trial. We are to take you to the capital."

"I'd encourage you not to run," the blonde one said - _Daisy,_ too delicate a name for a killer, "but please feel free to try."

A dangerous spark gleamed in her eye; she smiled again, and her lips stretched over serrated teeth.

"I do love a good _hunt."_


	7. adrift on a sea of misery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: shrines left abandoned for too long can be considered an invitation by dangerous creatures. Make sure to look after your local place of worship to reduce the risk of undesirable occupants.

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. There had been other people in the room, Martin was sure of it - but right now his entire world was limited to the table he was seated at, and the three other people he was with.

Jon was looking intently at the woman who seemed to be in charge; she was staring back at him, a picture of indifference.

“Basira Hussain,” he said finally, dragging on each syllable the way he had when he'd spoken the man’s name in Sunninghill. “You don't really want to be here, do you?”

She smiled coldly at him. Her hand came to rest on her companion’s arm when the blonde snatched the knife back from the table, staring daggers at Jon.

“Don't,” she said. It was unclear who, exactly, it was directed at, but no one would have dared disobeying it. “Now, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to stand up, and so are you. You are going to follow us to the local police station, and you'll climb into the vehicle they’ll lend us. Don't speak, just nod if you understand.”

The brunt of her attention was focused on Jon. However, she did give Martin a glance that explicitly said "don't try anything funny" - which, despite their dire situation, made him feel a bit better. As if, for once, Martin counted in the equation. It didn't mean much, in the grand scheme of things; he still had to rely on Jon to get them out of their problems. But it made him feel acknowledged - _seen_.

After a long silence, Jon only nodded stiffly.

"Good."

Both women stood up, the blonde one slipping her knife back into her coat in a practiced motion. Martin picked up his bag. Jon reached for his improvised staff, which was leaning against the wall; Daisy emitted a low growl, and Jon froze.

"Leave it," she said. Jon gauged her, before stepping away without a word and following in Basira's footsteps. Daisy's gaze slid over to Martin adjusting his bag on his shoulders, and she drawled: "I doubt you're going to need this where you're going."

Martin glared at her, and followed Jon and Basira out of the building.

The night had already started to fall grey and cold over the streets of the city. What surprised Martin the most, though, was the fog rolling on the cobblestone, its serpentine ribbons coiling around their calves. He saw Basira cast a quick glance toward the church's steeple rising above the roofs. The woman then looked at her companion, and gave a quick nod; Daisy caught on immediately. Suddenly the knife was back in her left hand, and the right was wrapped around the grip of a short single-edged sword.

"Let's get moving," Basira said - and, while she kept her tone measured and professional, it was obvious something had rattled her.

They walked in complete silence for a bit; the streets were empty save for their little group. No one wanted to be alone in the dark, city walls or not. They weren't going fast. the two women - the Hunters Nikola had talked about, Martin guessed - seemed on edge, though they were making a good effort at hiding it. Basira, at the front, would imperceptibly slow down before each intersection, and cast a wary glance around before keeping on walking. Martin could hear Daisy occasionally sniff the air behind him.

The fog kept swelling.

Jon slowed down until he was on Martin's level, and grabbed his wrist without a word. Martin didn't think telepathy was one of the Archivist's powers, but Jon's message was crystal clear when their eyes met:

_Get ready to run._

Martin glanced over his shoulder; Daisy narrowed her eyes at him, and her short sword drew a small anticipatory circle in the air at her side. He could hardly ask Jon what signal he was supposed to be waiting for with her looking so closely at them.

He didn't need to.

The feeling of emptiness fell over his shoulders like a lead cloak. He choked on a breath, stumbled, grabbed Jon's hand as if it were a lifeline. Jon didn't pull away. In fact, he tightened his grip on Martin, pressing in close in a way that would have felt claustrophobic if it hadn't been for the fact that this was exactly what Martin instinctively knew he needed at that moment: someone holding him close, and to not be alone.

Basira had stopped in front of them, holding a hand up to signal them to pause. Martin did so gratefully, his breath coming in short and labored as he struggled against the feeling of a tight fist around his heart. Jon, on the other hand, seemed to have stopped breathing entirely once again. His eyes, inhumanly bright, were looking around expectantly.

The fog was still rising.

Daisy emitted a low, frustrated growl, and rumbled “don’t move” as she walked past Martin and Jon. Daisy stepped in front of her colleague so she could keep an eye on their prisoners, and they started talking in low whispers.

The fog coalesced into a hand, and backhanded the blonde woman into the nearby building.

Her body hit the wall with a low, sick thud, and Martin clenched his teeth so hard he thought he might shatter them. Daisy hadn't screamed; Basira gasped, and Jon's grip on Martin's hand became so tight he might have heard the bones crack if it weren't for the thunderous noise of his own heartbeat in his ears.

For a moment, no one moved; the fist had dissipated into thin air, but the fog was still rolling around them lazily - threatening. Basira was frozen in place, staring at Daisy's crumpled form; Martin was still trying to make sense of what he'd just witnessed, and Jon - Jon was watching.

Then Daisy stirred, and time started again.

So did Jon and Martin.

"Now," Jon said unnecessarily. It took a beat more for Martin to shake his stupor, but then Jon started pulling him by the hand, and he had no choice but to start running or to trip on the uneven ground.

Daisy yelled something; Martin didn't look back, but it was fairly obvious the Hunters weren't going to let them get away that easily.

They ran. The gas lamp posts barely gave off enough light to allow Martin to see Jon’s silhouette slightly ahead of him. He focused on the Archivist's presence, on the physically of Jon’s hand in his. His mind kept going back to the thought of a fist made of fog grappling him, and tearing him away from the Archivist. No sound of pursuit could be heard behind them, but the image of Daisy, lean and sharp and _hungry_ , was still fresh in Martin's mind. Whatever she was, they wouldn't hear her coming.

Jon was leading him through the streets and alleyways, making them squeeze themselves into narrow passages between houses, apparently with no other goal in mind than the one to get _away_. He never let go of Martin’s hand once - until they found themselves facing the stone wall of the city.

Martin's fingers were suddenly full of empty air as Jon stepped away.

“Get out of the city,” he urged Martin in hushed tones. “Follow the wall until you find the gate. Get - just get out. Alright? Don't look back. They won't come after you. Can you do that?”

Martin's breath was already short from their escape.

“I- what? No, no, I'm not going to-”

“Can you do that?” Jon repeated, his voice harsh, his expression one of a man who would only accept one specific answer.

“Yes,” Martin choked out, and the lines of Jon’s face softened.

“Good. Find a safe place. I'll meet you there.”

And with those words, he disappeared back into the fog the way they had come. After a moment, Martin shook himself, and started jogging alongside the wall.

He belatedly remembered the dead man's amulet hung around his neck. Wasn't it supposed to make him impossible to find? Or could Jon somehow see through it? Not that Martin could do anything about it now; he just had to trust Jon knew what he was doing.

He kept glancing anxiously toward the houses as he ran, afraid someone would see him and sound the alert, but he really didn't have to bother. The city was as good as deserted.

The fog, which until then had curled around his ankles like a loving cat, started parting in front of him. Martin slowed down to a walk. His breath was running thin again, and the phenomenon was too suspicious for him to simply run head first into it. The fog wasn't natural, he knew that; fog didn't send people flying into a wall. Fog didn't shaped itself into a path, and lead people to their destination. And yet the city gates were soon standing in front of him - unguarded.

Martin paused, expecting to see at least some light in the guard post; when he saw none, he carefully snuck closer. Holding his breath, creeping toward the side door, he listened intently for any sign of life.

The silence was eerie, and it terrified him almost as much as the idea of being discovered by a guard or caught by Daisy. The door's hinges creaked when he pushed it, as subtle as a thunderclap, and he forced himself to close it behind him before quickly jogging away from the city walls.

"Find somewhere safe", Jon had said. Easier said than done; nothing really felt safe in Martin's mind at the moment. At least the fog wasn't as thick as it had been inside the city, and the pale glow of the shrouded half-moon was enough that he could see where he was stepping if he focused hard enough. He remembered seeing a large oak on their way in; it was, hopefully, far enough away from the road that the Hunters wouldn't think to look there.

The image of Daisy sniffing the air like a upright wolf crossed Martin's mind, and he shivered. _Hopefully._

He kept walking, trying to limit the noise his steps made, and he followed the road Jon and him had taken just a day ago. Inevitably, his thoughts drifted back to the Archivist, who he'd left behind - who had _told him_ to go. Martin knew Jon had better chances to escape the Hunters than he did, but it still felt - wrong. A coward's move. He glanced back toward the quiet city behind him; the sprawling black mass unsurprisingly didn't let on anything of what might be happening inside its limit. In a sense, not knowing was far worse than being hunted down with Jon would have been.

If he hadn't been so lost in his thoughts, he might have paid more attention to the preternatural quietness. The rustle of small creatures in the high grass, the whisper of the wind in the trees, so many more sounds that he'd gotten so used to he barely heard them anymore - all those sounds were gone, leaving only the white noise of the blood coursing through his veins.

Then he stopped under the motionless branches of the old oak, and all he could hear was -

_\- water?_

Martin looked around for the source of the noise, eyes opened as wide as he could. He hadn't noticed any lake or river as they'd walk past the landmark the day before, but it had already been late then, too dark to see in the distance. Martin hesitated; he probably ought to stay here, in case Jon came looking for him - but then again, he certainly would be able to find Martin even if he went and investigated the sound, right?

A light shone in the dark - muted, swinging lazily back and forth. Without even thinking about it, Martin took a step forward - mesmerized. It was as if a blanket of calm had been wrapped around his shoulders, quieting his fear and his anxiety. Exploring his surrounding wouldn't hurt, surely; no harm in wanting to know _._

The light turned out to be affixed to a prow, which was part of a boat. A long wooden platform stretched out over the water, and the craft was moored on the end of it, gently swaying as the waves hit its hull.

Martin kept walking. The platform creaked when he stepped on it, making Martin think - though he did not know why - of the noise a cat made when it acknowledged its master's presence.

The vessel became clearer as he got closer; it was bigger that it had seemed from afar. Fog rose around it, making it look both spectral and wonderful. Martin didn't know much about boats, but he was fairly sure that a vehicle that large belonged on the ocean, not on lakes or rivers or any kind of inland body of water.

(He'd been so sure he was nowhere near the coast a couple of minutes ago - but now the air smelled of salt, and the wind in his hair spoke of distant shores. The water lapping at the platform couldn't belong to anything but the sea.)

A man stood in front of the boat. He was nonchalantly leaning against one of the posts it was moored to, wrapped in a dark coat - waiting. Smoke curled in front of his shadowed face, and a point of light glowed every now and then inside his cupped hands as he dragged on a smoking pipe. He smiled when he saw Martin approach, as if he'd been expecting him. He looked - _kind_ wasn't exactly the right word. Kindness on that man was like a paper mask thrown over an unfathomable chasm:

Martin reached into his heart for worry, and only found disinterested curiosity.

"Hello," the man greeted him pleasantly when Martin stopped a few steps away from him. "Out for a walk, are we?"

Martin gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Something like that."

The man hummed, bemused, and took a drag of his pipe. The smell that drifted in Martin's direction - tobacco, vanilla, other minor scents he couldn't place - tugged on some distant memories, fleeting flashes of scenes that might have or might not have happened.

"This isn't a very safe hour to be out there alone, you know." The man seemed to be gauging him, his very pale, almost colorless eyes shining in the gentle light of the prow's lamp. "Wouldn't it have been safer to remain near the town?"

Martin shivered as the wind gained strength, slithering cold and biting into his collar. He'd been - scared, earlier. Terrified. Why did he feel so calm now?

"There were - Hunters, I think they were. They would have found me, and -"

"You wouldn't have been alone, though," the man remarked softly, and when Martin shivered this time, the wind had nothing to do with it.

“I saw you look at the church yesterday." The man changed the subject so abruptly Martin doubted the conversation they've been having until then had even existed. "What do you think of it?”

Martin could perfectly remember his feeling of uneasiness at the sight of the building; it had felt - perverted, somehow. As if something had carved out the previous beliefs and made it its home. In the end, he opted for a diplomatic answer:

“It, uh. It looks a bit abandoned?”

The man preened as if Martin had just complimented him. “It _does,_ doesn't it?” Then, before Martin could ask the question that hung on the tip of his tongue - _what are you_ \- the man jumped back to their previous conversation. "So, those Hunters! Any reason they're looking for you?"

“Not - for me. I was with someone -” Martin shook his head, and it felt as if some of his own self was coming back to him, piercing through the frost of apathy. "We've been travelling together, we -"

“We?” The man cocked an eyebrow. “I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but you are alone.”

Alone? No, Jon was going to come back for him. He'd said so. They were in this together. He wouldn't have suddenly decided to go on his own.

"Not for long," Martin said, only half-convinced. "He said he'd find me. Any second now."

“If he doesn't, you can come with me,” the man offered, his tone so light Martin almost dismissed it as a joke.

His eyes, though, were deadly serious. He let the silence linger for a bit, as Martin tried - and failed - to refuse, the words blocked in his throat by the intensity of that stare. Then the man extended a hand:

“Come with me,” he said again, and this time there was no mistaking his tone of voice: not an offer, but an order.

Without any intervention of his brain, Martin’s hand rose shakily. He started reaching out - stopped himself, hesitant. The man's smile widened in encouragement.

“Come with me, Martin.”

And Martin started to close the last centimeters, for no other reason that it felt like the right thing to do. The man was waiting patiently for Martin to make contact, and Martin -

“Martin?”

Martin started and turned around; Jon was looking at him with an expression of concern.

“Come on, we have to leave.”

"I - yeah, there's just -"

He turned back around, and there was no trace of the stranger - or his boat, or the sea it had been floating on. Martin looked down on his feet, and found he was standing on grass instead of wood planks.

The tree above him rustled in the soft wind.

* * *

They couldn't go too far in the darkness. Jon wordlessly took Martin's hand to guide him in the dark again, and Martin held fast, grateful. The night around them felt alive once again, busy with noises of animal life that he would have ignored before but now clung to like a comforting proof that everything was as it should be. He wanted to ask how Jon had managed to escape the Hunters, wanted to tell him about the phantom ship and its elusive captain - but the feeling of calm emptiness he'd felt before lingered, stilling the words on his tongue.

Eventually they agreed to stop until the morning. They couldn't be sure they'd taken the right direction; the best solution was to wait for enough daylight to take a look at the map, and find their way to Oxbridge. The risk of getting caught up on by the Hunters was still fresh on Martin's mind, but when he shared his concerns with Jon, the Archivist made a face and dismissed them.

“Do not worry about them. I am quite certain they will be busy with... _other matters_ for a while.”

Martin didn't ask what those matters involved. There were some things you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy, and giant phantom hands were one of them.

They made camp in a dilapidated old farm a respectable distance away from the road. There wasn't much to it - four crumbled walls, a ground made of packed dirt, and a half-collapsed roof. The wooden beams that had supported it had long been eroded by insects and bad weather. However, the way they'd fallen had made a corner of the house into its own small room, as protected from the elements as could be expected from such a ruin. They settled underneath; no fire would be possible in the semi-enclosed space, and Martin wrapped himself tighter in his pitifully light coat, accepting he wouldn't be getting much sleep in the freezing night.

He heard Jon shuffle next to him, presumably bundling himself up in his cape. Martin could perfectly picture him, even though he couldn't see a thing; Jon wrapped himself as tight as he could in whatever blankets he had available, leaving an opening in the cocoon barely enough for him to get his head through. It reminded Martin of the way bats slept, upside-down and swaddled in their own wings - and it might not have sounded like the most endearing comparison, but Martin had always found bats cute, anyway.

Not that he was finding Jon "cute".

...Who was he kidding? Of course he did. Trying to deny his attraction to the Archivist was a lost cause. The best course of action at this point was to just accept it and... recognize that the circumstances weren't right. They were being hunted, and sinister plans were afoot; certainly Jon had more important things to think about than romance, especially with _Martin._ Would he even be interested in the idea of something as trivial as a relationship? He certainly didn't seem the type.

Martin's morose thoughts, as well as the quietness of their pitiful shelter, were interrupted by Jon - who shuffled closer and tucked himself against Martin, who froze and felt his face catch on fire at the same time.

"I can hear your teeth chatter from over there," Jon muttered as an explanation as he spread his cape over the both of them. It was heavier than Martin had expected, made from a thick wool that was already warm from Jon's heat.

"Thank you," he murmured, and Jon hummed.

Martin wasn't feeling as cold already, though he doubted the improvised blanket actually had much to do with it.

* * *

Sleep proved hard to find, but he had to have fallen into a dreamless slumber eventually; next thing he knew, he was waking to a pale, humid morning. The air that entered his lungs smelled of moss and mold and wet earth. The morning dew had settled on him, and the cape had disappeared - tightly wrapped, once again, around Jon's sleeping form. Martin couldn't help but smile at the sight; the Archivist had probably reclaimed his property in his sleep, the burrowing instinct taking over his good will to share. And - it was probably creepy, right, to stare at someone as they were sleeping?  Martin was aware of it, and yet he couldn't avert his eyes, enjoying the moment of peace while it lasted.

Eventually he pulled himself together again. Time was a rare commodity for them, and he could hardly justify wasting it on developing a hopeless flame on his traveling companion further.

He hesitated for a second, hand hovering above Jon's shoulder, before gently shaking him. Jon woke with a start, and Martin immediately jerked back, putting some distance between them. The Archivist scrambled up to a kneeling position, eyes flashing as he stared at Martin, disoriented.

Martin held his hands in front of him, palms forward, and tried to think about some soothing words - but then Jon's shoulders dropped, and he rubbed his eyes.

"Martin," he said. His voice was weary, still hoarse with sleep, and Martin almost apologized for waking him up.

"The sun is up," he said instead on a regretful tone. "I, uh. I thought it was best waking you up."

"Yes. Yes, of course."

They dug into Martin's provisions for a filling breakfast, before leaning over the map once again. They estimated which direction they'd taken in the night from the surrounding landmarks, and deduced the road they'd have to get to.

Then they were on their way again. Martin was starting to get used to the long walks and quick pace, and he found himself almost enjoying the exercise as it warmed him up. The trip was mostly made in silence, both of them busy with their own thoughts. Then Jon started abruptly asking Martin disjointed questions every once in a while, when he surfaced from long stretches of intense reflection.

"How are our diplomatic relations with neighboring countries?"

Pretty good, Martin supposed. Nothing concerning had came up, anyway - though, to be fair, news from the outside were a bit scarce these days.

"And farming? Have the crops been doing well?"

Last summer had been exceptionally dry, and the previous winter had lingered long after it'd been expected to be over. The one that was coming looked like it could be the same, actually. Food was a bit more expensive than it used to be, but it simply had been a bad couple of years.

"How's the capital called?"

Well, that one was easy. It was -

No, hold on.

It started with e E-. Or an L-, maybe. It was right on the tip of his tongue.

"Have you forgotten the name of the city you live in?"

Jon had stopped, and he was looking at Martin with careful neutrality. Martin scoffed, uncomfortable, and crossed his arms. No matter how hard he tried, the name of the city - _his_ city - kept slipping from his grasp.

"No, of course not! I _know_ it, it's just -"

"- escaping you right now?"

"...Yes." Martin's shoulders dropped. Now that he focused on the memories he had of the city he'd lived in for years, the details were becoming blurrier and blurrier. For some reason, the path to the Institute remained crystal clear in his mind, as if burned behind his eyelids. "Why - you know what's going on, right? This isn't just," he chuckled nervously, "bad memory, or something, is it?"

"I'm afraid not." Jon wearily leaned on his staff - he'd picked a new one in the morning, a sturdy oak branch wrapped in dry ivy. "Avatars - and the Powers they serve - tend to make strange things happen around them - most of the time on purpose, but not always. It gets worse when they're in high concentration. And I'm guessing that the capital - whichever its name might be now - is a nest of activity at the moment." He sighed, mumbled to himself: "I guessed it would have gotten bad under Nikola's rule, but it might be even worse than I thought if the Stranger has become strong enough to make a whole city go unknown."

Martin ran a hand through his hair, suddenly hit with how strange his life had gotten in the past few days. He thought he'd been dealing pretty well so far, but now... Now strange old men summoned seasides in the middle of the countryside, and the heart of the nation was riddled with monsters like an apple infested with worms - badly enough that human memory itself caved around it. There was only so much a man could take in half a week.

"What are we supposed to do, then?" Martin asked, not bothering to try and hide the hint of hysteria in his voice. "I - I mean, is there anything we can do? Will people believe us if we tell them what's going on?"

"Doubtful. They would need a solid proof that something bad is happening; otherwise, we will just be - birds of ill omen. They won't _want_ to believe us, because it's easier to fool yourself into thinking everything is fine. Moreover, you didn't think anything was off before, right? Despite knowing of everything that wasn't going as well as it should. I suspect they - Nikola, Elias, whoever else - have a hand in this - blindness."

The bitter taste of a battle already lost filled Martin's mouth. "There has to be - something, right? We can't just not do anything."

Jon seemed to have noticed Martin's distress, as his expression softened slightly. He took a step to put a hand on Martin's shoulder, and caught his eyes.

"There's nothing we can do _alone_ \- but we don't have to. Our plan was to find Gertrude, and I think we should stick to it. I don't know much about her, but I am confident she'll have more information - a plan, maybe, even. Let's go get your friends first. We'll figure it out."

It felt like a promise - and, while the words themselves might have sounded feeble in anyone else's mouth, Jon made it sound as if it was the only possible outcome.

And besides - Martin wanted to believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yalll please look at this [art](https://twitter.com/saphizzle/status/1143618128628375553) saph drew from last chapter,,, and also doodlematte on tumblr did [som doodles](https://doodlematte.tumblr.com/post/185797652413/summary-of-the-past-139-episodes-jon-and-martin)...
> 
> thank you so much for your comments <3 I never know how to respond but they're literally the reason i'm still writing this so please keep doing so!


	8. hunting that which walks on two legs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> INTERLUDE - the Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know you all want to know what's up with daisy ;)

Alice “Daisy” Tonner was lost.

She was lost, and alone, and scared - though she stubbornly refused to acknowledge this particular emotion. It would only make her situation worse.

Most important than all that, Daisy was _furious._

It really shouldn't have been a complicated assignment. The Head of the Magnus Institute had provided them with the direction the Archivist had taken after he'd woken up - apparently, the man's compulsion to be as unhelpful as possible had for once been outweighed by something he wanted even more. And then, it had only been a matter of tracking, which Daisy was good at. Which Daisy _enjoyed_ . Basira had volunteered to come with her, but Daisy had seen the look in her eyes when she'd stepped forward. Her old friend wasn't scared for her; she was scared _of_ her, and of what she could do unsupervised.

The memory brought a familiar bitterness to Daisy's tongue. She wasn't an animal. She was still - she was still _human,_ for god's sake. Just stronger, quicker, better. A Hunter.

She stopped in an empty street - just as empty as all the others, just as quiet and empty and unnerving - and breathed in deeply. She was hoping her sharpened senses would at the very least pick up Basira's familiar smell - though if her suspicions were true, there would be no scent of any kind to pick up.

The only thing she could detect were the smells of wet pavement and moldy wood - as well as the slightest hint of salt, grating on her nerves like a stain on the hem of a new shirt.

Daisy swore under her breath, casting restless glances around. The place she was confined to wasn't anywhere near small, and yet she felt claustrophobic, restless - blood simmering in her veins and she fought her instinct to scream, or to destroy something, or to curl up and cry. If anyone had been around to see her in that instant, clenching the blades in her hands and breathing heavily, they'd have seen a caged wolf; barely restrained energy, and the promise of a massacre once she was finally let out.

A Hunter was nothing without a quarry.

She knew the best course of action was to wait it out. There was nothing she could do to speed up her release, except perhaps not do anything, and hope her captor would get bored. She simply had to deny them what they wanted from her: her fear, her despair, her Loneliness.

Daisy put her back against the nearest wall and let herself slide to the ground. It was fine. It had to be. She just had to be patient.

It turned out to be a terrible idea. Each passing minute was kindle to her rage, each second a fly's bite to the bull that was her accumulated heap of frustration. Anger flared inside her chest even as she tried to keep calm.

Daisy was angry at the Archivist for not behaving the way he'd been told to - even if it should have been to be expected, given what Elias had told them. She was angry at his companion for running into the opposite direction and forcing them to pick a target. She was angry at Basira, who'd insisted to come to keep an eye on her only to vanish around a corner, swallowed up by a preternatural fog.

And then - _then_ she was angry at herself, for not seeing the warning signs. For letting their prey escape. For getting herself trapped in a ghost town in which she was the one being hunted. Foolish, _foolish._

She knocked her back against the stone behind her, hard enough to make the pain in her bruised side explode again. She bit her lip, and the taste of blood flooded her mouth, bringing her surroundings into a sharp focus. She jumped back up onto her feet. She couldn't wait. Each second spent waiting for her captor's good will improved her prey's chances to escape.

Daisy let out a long, inarticulate howl - frustration and rage mingled in one powerful cry that bounced and echoed in the bowels of the deserted city.

“Lukas!” she then yelled out. It had to be one of them; if she could only force them show themselves -

Then, a chuckle behind her, so low she wouldn't have heard it had her senses still been simply human. She whipped around, resisting the urge to immediately leap at her jailer. She decided to examine him first, estimating how easy it would be to close the distance between them and slash his throat with a single swipe of her sword.

He wasn't a young man, though his large shoulders and confident stance indicated he wasn't as old as the lines of his face might suggest. He looked unarmed, his hands stuffed in the pockets of an inky black coat. The fog was thick where he stood, as if the heavy mist was a faithful hound greeting its master.

Answer was: not that easy.

A nasty shiver crept up her spine. Daisy bared her teeth and snarled.

"Something I can help you with?" the man said agreeably.

"Let," she growled without so much as a hello, "me out."

The man waited a beat, as if he'd been expecting her to say more. Then he blinked in surprise:

"Oh? This is a bit crude, don't you think? Not that I expect Hunters to be well-mannered, but a simple please can go a long -"

"Shut it," she snapped. "Let me out."

The man tutted disapprovingly. "This is no way to have a discussion - one party threatening the other. Could you put this away, please? Weapons make me nervous."

Daisy stared him down - if anyone was threatening anyone, it was him. He kept placidly looking at her, appearing perfectly happy to let time run until she complied. She ended up reluctantly sheeting back her blades, and he tilted his head.

"Thank you so much."

"What do you think you're doing?" she growled. "This is none of your business."

For a second, his colorless eyes shed their pretend warmth and turned so cold Daisy almost expected shards of ice to bite her limbs; then he arranged his features into an affable smile.

"Why, delaying you, of course. No reason the game should end now; I am very curious to see what those two can get up to if left to their own devices for a little while longer."

"A - game? You think I'm playing a _game?"_

The man shrugged, unconcerned. "Isn't that what Hunters do? It would have been a very short pursuit if I hadn't stopped you. Consider it a gift." Again, a smile - closed-lipped, distant, disinterested. "Admit it, you would have been disappointed to have it that easy."

Daisy clenched her teeth and glared daggers at him. He sighed.

"No thank you? Fine, be ungrateful."

The man snapped his fingers, and Daisy felt a wave of nausea as the world shifted around her. She closed her eyes to fight it off, her fists tight around the grip of her sword and knife.

When she opened them again, the man was gone. The moon that hung high in the sky was different from the one she'd seen last, and the fog in the streets was barely visible anymore. Basira was in front of her, holding her by the shoulders.

"- Daisy?" she was calling, her eyes scouring her companion's face with clear concern. "Are you with me? Can you hear me?"

Daisy breathed out in relief, her hands curling around Basira's forearms as an attempt at reassurance.

"I'm alright, Basira."

Basira relaxed as soon as she spoke, and Daisy remembered: not scared for her, but scared _of_ her.

The Hunter stepped away, swallowing around the biting words that stung the tip of her tongue.

"How long?" she asked instead.

"Two days," Basira answered, understanding the implied question. _How long was I trapped?_

"And you stayed there? Instead of going after them?"

"I wasn't going to leave you behind," Basira said. _Someone needs to keep an eye on you,_ she meant.

Instead of saying anything she might regret, Daisy punched a wall. She could tell Basira was staring disapprovingly, but she couldn't bring herself to care; Basira had stopped seeing her as her friend a while ago already. Now she only saw the monster. The hit hadn't been strong enough to damage the stone - just enough to sting her knuckles, to bring her mind back on the thing that mattered: the Hunt, and the faint scent of fear her quarries had left behind.

"Next time," she spat, "we're going after the human. The Archivist cares about him. Let's use him as bait."

She thought she saw the slightest hint of hesitation in Basira's eyes, before her partner nodded.

"Of course. Let's go get the horses."

They stated on the path to the police station. Daisy could feel eyes on them, though she couldn't tell whose they were.

It didn't matter; she would give neither Lukas nor Bouchard the pleasure of acknowledging them.

  
  



	9. the fire sermon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people just want to watch the world burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's an incredibly lazy summary but you know what's up.
> 
> Trying to catch up on answering comments, I cherish each one of them thank you for your support <3

Their path took them to a river which ran silver and roaring alongside the road. Martin kept a cautious distance between the bank and him; the water seemed to be calling to him every time he glanced in its direction. He still hadn't told Jon about the mysterious captain - though, by now, he had almost managed to convince himself he'd just imagined the whole encounter. An ocean suddenly popping out of thin air and vanishing just as fast? It had to have been a dream.

They followed the path of the river upstream, and Oxbridge came into view soon after. Martin knew the city, having been there a couple of times before for research purposes. Its extensive library held some unique manuscripts that couldn't leave its wall due to their value, and anyone who wanted to consult them had to travel there themselves. The city, from the outside, didn't seem to have changed much, just as charmingly ancient-looking as it had always been . The typical high stone walls looked weathered but strong, and their peaks were shaped in crenels. The river ran straight through the ramparts, and the spots where the water flowed in and out were fenced and barred. It was, for all intent and purposes, an actual fortress.

Although everything seemed to be as it had always been, a sense of unease kept nagging at Martin's mind. He couldn't put a finger on what exactly, though; it couldn't be that important, if it kept eluding him like that.

Next to him, Jon self-consciously readjusted the kerchief around his neck. He then nodded at Martin confidently, and they advanced toward the gates.

The guards at the door were numerous and well-armed, but they weren't particularly watchful - the result of years of apparent peace. A couple of pairs of eyes did follow them as they walked past, but quickly slid away when it became obvious they weren't about to do anything inhuman.

"Where to now?" Jon asked once they were into the city proper. "Where are we supposed to meet your friends?"

Martin realized that he'd neglected to define a meeting point beside "Oxbridge" - but Sasha and Tim knew the city as well as he did. They were bound to check the library first, certainly. Jon perked up when Martin mentioned it.

"A library?" he asked, a little breathless. He glanced left and right, as if the building were about to pop into existence before his eyes at its mention.

Martin couldn't help but smile. "It's full of very rare manuscripts," he said. "One-of-a-kind editions, the sort you're only allowed to open if you're wearing gloves. I think you'd like it," he added, before biting his tongue - was it too presumptuous to assume Jon would enjoy a dusty building full of old ink?

His hesitation melted when Jon's attention focused back on him. The Archivist looked uncharacteristically - _giddy?_ It almost looked like he was vibrating in place with excitement. If he'd been a dog, his tail would have been wagging by now.

A wave of affection filled Martin's chest, warm and bright and leaving him speechless for an instant. Then he remembered how to speak:

"It would probably be best for us to stay there while we wait for Sasha and Tim," he continued innocently. "The people there will remember I'm with the Institute, I'm sure they'll let us access some books. Only if that's something you'd be interested in, of course."

"Martin Blackwood," Jon said slowly and steadily. A shiver ran up Martin's spine at the intensity of his eyes. "There's nothing I'd like more."

Martin's mouth suddenly felt very dry. He chuckled, feeling his face starting to burn, and looked away.

"Alright, uh. I'll - let's go, then."

Jon gestured forward.

"After you."

* * *

Jon kept asking questions about the library as Martin navigated them through the busy streets, and Martin answered each the best he could. He was _baffled_ , to say the least, by this new Jon - eager, excited, curious. Martin would never have been able to imagine Jon as a child before then, what with his graying temples and customary severe expression. But now - now the Archivist walked with a spring in his steps, eyes gleaming with interest, waving the hand that wasn't holding his staff as he talked instead of keeping it still and hidden under his cape.

This was, if anything, the last nail in Martin's coffin when it came to his hopeless infatuation with his companion of misfortune. Love was taking root into his chest, and he let it, feeling fulfilled and whole for the first time in ages. The pain that would eventually result from it would be worth it, he thought, because for a couple of fragile moments he would have been truly happy. He didn't even feel the need to make this feeling known to Jon. It could simply sit in his chest, warming him up like a small secret sun, and no one needed to know. It could only be his, and it would be enough.

And so Martin nodded and smiled at Jon's uncharacteristically enthusiastic description of his own library's content, and he guided the Archivist deeper into the city.

The mound of ash and blackened stone that greeted them in place of the library stopped Martin right in his tracks. His story about the time Tim and him had been sent in Oxbridge for an old prophecy book died on his lips as he felt his heart drop. Jon stopped next to him, and followed his gaze toward the ruins.

His face fell. "Oh," he said. "Is it -"

Martin took an unsteady step forward, and another, coming closer from the destroyed building, raking his brain frantically for an explanation. This couldn't be the right place. Maybe he'd just taken a wrong turn. Surely the library was still standing a couple of streets away, safe and sound. He looked around, searching for landmarks that would validate this theory - but he recognized his surroundings. He realized suddenly that what had felt so off from the outside was the library's lone tower in the city's skyline.

"It's - gone," he said numbly. The long halls filled with centuries-old manuscripts, the architectural marvel of the building itself - reduced to dust and rubble. Looking upon the resulting ruins almost caused him physical pain; he took a shuddering breath, unable to tear his eyes away despite his discomfort.

He felt a light touch in his shoulder. Jon was standing next to him, keeping a comforting hand on him even as he examined the wreckage with sharp eyes and an expression of distaste.

"I don't understand," Martin babbled, shaken. "It's been standing there for ages. It's - it's survived wars, and natural disasters, and - and the city looks untouched apart from _this!_ How did it happen?"

"It didn't just _happen_ ," Jon said somberly. He stepped closer to the destruction, and took a deep breath, swaying a bit on his feet. Then he hissed through his teeth, recoiling as if he'd been hit by a particularly bad smell. "The Lightless Flame did this. The Desolation."

"The - oh." Martin could remember some thing about them - monsters who lived off forest fire and destruction, for whom the misery of others was the most filling of meals. He whipped the tears from his eyes angrily, trying to quell the grief in his chest. It was a lost cause and he knew it, but he could at least make it harder for them to feed on his pain.

Taking a fortifying breath, he stepped forward and joined Jon in front of the destroyed monument. The rubles - shattered stone and half-burnt wooden beams - made him think of the remains of a huge old beast, its presence lost to the world forever. Here and there, the debris still bled out charred paper and broken binding; he thought about going to check them for anything salvageable, but the locals most certainly already had had a go at it. Besides, the ruins looked at least several weeks old; nothing as fragile as books could have survived that long exposed to the elements.

"Such a waste," Martin muttered, looking upon the wreck. he sighed gratefully when Jon shuffled closer, knocking their shoulders together in sympathy. The Archivist didn't speak, deciding to give him a moment to process the tragedy - and he appreciated it, but he was aware they couldn't afford to stay for long.

"Alright," he said once he was sure he could stand to move on. "Let's - I don't know. What - I suppose we should still stick around, since that's the place Tim and Sasha are the most likely to check." He rubbed a hand across his eyes, feeling drained. "I'm sorry, Jon."

"Don't - there's no need to apologize, Martin. I am the one who should say sorry. I regret this happened. You seemed to like this place a lot."

Martin gave a weak smile. "Yes, I guess I did. But - it's not about me. So many irreplaceable tomes and cards and paintings have been lost," he lamented, before throwing a sore glance around. "And no one seems to be bothered by it! You'd think that had least the local church would have tried cleaning up the remnants. What is going on?"

"We should ask around," Jon offered. "We've got some time, don't we?"

"What good would that do?" Martin said bitterly. "You said monsters had done it, right? We can't really do anything about it now."

Jon huffed. "Sure. But you can either stand here and cry over a heap of dead rock, or you can busy yourself finding who to blame for it. We won't beat them - pray we never even cross their path - but wouldn't you prefer to know exactly how it went down?"

Martin looked at him; the Archivist eyes were shining with an eagerness that wasn't entirely natural - a combination of human curiosity and less-human _hunger_ which would have unsettled Martin not so long ago, but to which he felt he could only respond in kind now.

"Yes," he breathed out. "Alright. Yes. Let's ask around."

They started out by questioning the tenants of the nearby shops and pubs, and received the same answer from almost everyone: that there had been a fire, and that they should ask the people from the cathedral for additional details.

One man, though, stopped them as they were exiting one of the bars. He had been waiting near the door, his shape conveying clear nervousness despite the thick coat he was wearing; Martin thought he was a beggar until he stepped in front of them. He was dressed curiously, wearing a cowl and a heavy scarf that obscured most of his face - and if the rest of him matched the twisted, freshly burnt flesh Martin could see around his eyes, it was easy to understand the reason of it.

"I heard you asking about the library," he rasped, his voice slightly muffled under the layers of cloth. "Don't go - don't go where everyone's been telling you to go. Don't go to the cathedral. This isn't a place of worship anymore. Or at least -" he paused to look around for eavesdroppers "- not for us."

"Us?" Martin said, although he already had a suspicion of what the man meant.

"Us. Humans." Of course. "The people that run the church around here now - they're the ones who burned down the library. They did this to me," he said, gesturing at his hidden figure. "Their religion is destruction, and they set fire to everything they touch." His fingers lingered above his cheek, and his voice sounded a bit gentler when he spoke next: "Though if it's a blessing or a curse, I couldn't tell you."

On these strange words, he bid them good day and stepped away, moving slowly as if each movement brought him indescribable pain. Martin wondered what had happened to him.

"So," Jon said once the man was out of earshot. "I think we should check the cathedral."

Martin gave him an unimpressed look.

"Have you heard him? I feel like this is the last thing we should do."

"In my experience, the places you're told not to explore are the ones that can deliver the answers you need." Martin kept staring at him, doubt clear on his face, and Jon sighed. "Look, I've got a theory I want to confirm. We don't even have to get in. Let's just go take a look, alright?"

Martin still wasn't convinced, but he already knew he was going to accept. They didn't have many other options, anyway; and as ominous as the looming spires of the cathedral looked, he had the feeling that it was exactly the reason Jon so intrigued by them.

"Alright," he relented, starting in the holy building's direction. "One thing, though - I am not running into danger without knowing why. What is your theory, exactly? Does it have to do with how religious places feel -" he searched for an appropriate word, and settled on an awkward: " _\- weird?_ "

"Quite. Remember the last church? The fog?"

"Remember?" grumbled Martin. "I wish I could forget."

A guilty silence echoed him, and Martin shook his head.

"Not your fault. Yes, I remember."

"What did you... I know you felt something. What was it, exactly?"

Martin thought for a bit. He'd felt - cold, in every sense of the term. Deprived of both the sun's heat and of human warmth. He'd felt alone. Or - not exactly alone. Rather, as if the only thing that could acknowledge his existence was the last thing he wanted the company of. And then there'd been the troubling dream, and the man that had vanished the moment Martin hadn't been alone anymore -

"I felt lonely, I think. As if loneliness was a presence I could actually feel, or a smell I could taste in the back of my throat. And then there was -"

He wanted to tell Jon about the man on the platform, but his mouth froze around his words. Jon gave him an inquiring but patient look, and Martin tried again:

"There's something I need to tell you, Jon..."

And again the words turned to mist in his head, and he was left gaping and frustrated and more than a little bit panicked.

"Yes?" Jon encouraged him. Martin struggled a bit longer, then shrugged helplessly.

"Nothing. It's - nothing." He gave a weak smile when Jon stared at him, unconvinced. "Don't worry. What were you saying?"

Jon gave a hum of doubt, but didn't push. "I've noticed the same thing. And the fog only confirmed my suspicion that that church had a new - hmm. Resident, shall we say. Tell me, Martin - what do people believe in, nowadays?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do people still believe in anything? Do they go to - I don't know, religious services, something?"

Martin had never really been interested in religion himself, but now that he thought of it it didn't seem like anyone else was either. There had been festivals in the past, streets overflowing with carnations and chanting processions in the streets to greet the spring, and bonfires when fall came .

"You know what? I don't think they really do anymore," he said finally. "I - Uh. You think those two things are connected?"

"I'm almost sure they are." Jon came to a stop, throwing a quick glance toward the cathedral's spire looming above them. "It isn't my place to say whether there's a... higher power, or something watching over us. Not anything that wants us any good, in any case," he amended. "Belief is something powerful. Any space that's used for religious purposes for any length of time is bound to develop a - a presence. An energy on its own. A power that lingers even when the people who've built it up are gone. It becomes a potential to harvest, ripe for the picking - and Avatars are opportunists at heart. I can't tell if they've induced that decline in faith the area's been experiencing, but they've sure made use of it."

"Wait - the church in that village - Sunninghill - it didn't feel as strange. Why's that?"

"Sunninghill isn't a fortified town," Jon shrugged. "I imagine the people there are more likely to pray to a deity if they think it improves their chances to see another day."

"Makes sense, yes." Martin hesitated. "So we're - there's going to be people in that cathedral, then."

"For a definition of _people._ " Jon sighed. "I just - I need to learn more about the situation. We can snoop around a bit, see what's been going on. It doesn't have to be dangerous. People of the Lightless Flame aren't particularly known for their perception skills."

Martin wasn't reassured, but he followed Jon when he started walking again. "If you say so."

He'd expected the building to feel _wrong_ from up close, of course; but now that he was confronted with the impressive edifice, it was hard not to take off running in the opposite direction.

"Alright there?" Jon asked, and Martin realized he'd stopped right before entering the cathedral's square. He worked his jaw a bit, focusing on keeping his heartbeat under control.

"Yes," he said before taking in a large gulp of air. He'd hoped it would clear his head, but the wind smelled of smoke and burned candles, and it didn't help as he'd hoped. "Yes, let's get it over with."

The building had been stark white at one point. Now the bottom of it was stained with soot, even though there was no trace of fire on the ground; Martin thought he'd caught the flicker of a flame in the windows, but it was only the glare of the sun against a half-melted panel of stained glass. As they got closer, they saw the heavy doors were charred - and half-open. Martin gave Jon a weary glance.

"We're going in," he whispered, not even bothering to make it a question. Jon hesitated.

"You could - stay outside, if you'd rather. I won't be long, and I'm sure I could do with a lookout."

Martin thought about it for the briefest of second, before shaking his head.

"No. I'm going to worry myself sick if I don't know what's going on. I'm coming with you."

Jon graced him with one of his small, private smiles, then started working on nudging the gigantic door further open as quietly as possible. Martin winced when the hinges creaked, but they eventually managed to slip in unnoticed.

As far as they could tell, at least. No one came running at them immediately, and that was as good as they were going to get.

The first thing they noticed was the absolutely scorching heat that dropped down on them as soon as they stepped in. It was the worst kind of heat, a humid, chocking swelter; it made Martin feel as if a huge hand was covering his mouth and nose, not choking him but definitely obstructing his breathing. Jon didn't look like he was faring any better; he'd pushed the hood of his cloak away from his face and untied the handkerchief from his neck, using it to wipe the sweat that was already pearling on his brow

They took a moment to get used to it, then stepped forward. The inside of the building was very dark, as if an invisible smoke filled the space and smothered every source of light. They had to progress slowly to make sure not to bump into anything, Martin right on Jon's heels whose supernatural vision didn't appear to help. Martin raised his eyes to the stained glass windows lining the upper part of the high walls. Most of them were damaged in some manner, blacked with ash; they barely let the daylight in, and the light they did allow to go through they turned reddish and bleak.

Martin felt like he'd been swallowed by some sort of disproportionate dragon. Shivering despite the heat, he stumbled closer to Jon to make sure not to lose him in the semi-darkness.

There were countless candles lit all through the edifice. They dripped black wax on reading desks, on pews, on delicately crafted mosaics. Their flickering flames were ineffective to illuminate the place; but what they didn't give off in light, they gave in heat tenfold.

The appellation "Lightless Flame" made a lot of sense.

They progressed carefully toward the crossing, where the aisle split in front of the empty and silent choir. Martin squinted to get a better look at the transept on his right; he was sure he could see shapes, like people still and bent, all wrapped up in black rags. He took a tentative step in their direction - they could be cultists, for sure, but they might also be people in need of help, and he had to make sure -

Then he got close enough to understand what he was looking at, and stumbled back precipitately. Those people wouldn't be needing any help - not anymore.

Martin turned away from the charred corpses, suppressing a shiver of disgust. The twin points of light of Jon's eyes swung in his direction, and even though Martin couldn't clearly see his face, he thought he saw him soften.

The Archivist touched his arm lightly, and nudged him forward and away from the massacre.

They crept up the length of the building, keeping to the north side of it. The ground was covered in a fine layer of ash; here and there were piles of burned books, their pages brittle, only waiting for the slightest displacement of air to crumble into dust. The air was silent but thrummed with impending destruction, as if the whole place was a dormant flame only waiting for the right moment to blaze bright again.

Then - then they reached the back of the cathedral and the doors to the vestry, and a muffled conversation came to their ears.

Jon threw an arm in front of Martin to make him stop in his tracks, and they froze, focusing on the voices drifting from the half-open door. Two voices, arguing; two women, one angry and harsh, the other desperate and pleading. It was hard to understand their words from a distance - and they seemed so caught up in their argument, they wouldn't be paying attention to subtle movement outside their door. It was, anyway, what Martin understood when Jon glanced up at him and nodded once before inching closer to the door; of course, Martin followed him.

"What did you think you were playing at?" the angry woman is saying, venom dripping from her words. "How did you think this was going to end, Agnes? Did you think you could just have a sweet little love story and ignore your destiny and duty? Did you think it would go _well?_ "

When the other woman answered, her voice wavered as if she was about to start crying - but her tone also gave the impression that she would hold her ground even then.

“I only wanted to have something for myself, Jude! Something I chose, with no hidden goal, something real! Something human!”

“You're not human, is the thing! You've never been!" The first woman - Jude - spat. Martin thought he could hear an edge of despair as well, as if she disliked arguing with her companion as much as she hated whatever Agnes had done to upset her in the first place. "You're not human! You're _ours!_ "

There was nothing but the sound of heavy breathing for a beat, as Jude struggled to get hers back under control from her outburst. Agnes's sounded wetter, half-chocked sobs she attempted to swallow before they emerged. Then Jude's voice came again - soft, so soft in contrast to her furious shouting from a moment before:

"You're _mine_ , Agnes. I can't let you get hurt by - by something so insignificant as a human man. You understand this, right? You matter so much. You are - so important, and perfect, and I love you," steps crunching on broken glass as someone walked across the room, a sharp intake of breath, then a sigh - "I love you, Agnes, and I don't expect anything in return, except for the right to worry about you, and to protect you. This is the only thing I'm asking for. Can you give me this?"

Agnes sniffed - exhaled deeply, as if she was relieved of a weight. Then:

"Did you know?"

"Did I know what, dear?"

"Did you know he would burn if I kissed him?"

Another crunch of glass - Jude, steeping away. Her voice was bitter when she spoke again:

"We all knew, Agnes. You're the only one who thought you could control it. You were born from the fire, _for_ the fire. For all intents and purposes, you _are_ the Lightless Flame. This isn't going to change because you want things to be different." She waited for Agnes to answer, and when she didn't, Jude said: "I am sorry."

Agnes's voice - "No, you're not" - came suddenly from right behind the door they'd been listening at, and they barely had the time to jump back before it swung open.

Running would not be an option.

The woman named Agnes seemed as surprised to see them as they were. She was pale, eyes puffy with tears. Her dark red hair were a messy halo around her head, and the light in her back made it look as if it was ringed with fire. Her dress, once a marvel of delicate white lace, was stained black at the bottom hem.

Jon's hand shot out to grab Martin's hand, pulling him back - did he hope they could escape? They were only able to take a few stumbling steps backward, though, before Agnes stomped her bare foot on the stone ground. Fire erupted from the impact point, leaping and catching in a circle around them until they were effectively trapped in an arena of melted stone and burning wood.

Jude strolled in from the room behind Agnes and leaned against the door frame next to her companion. She crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at the intruders. She was short, much shorter than Agnes, with close-cropped soot-black hair where her companion's were long and fiery. She smiled lazily, cruelly, as her gaze fell over the uncovered silver brooch at Jon's throat.

"Well, well," she purred. "What do we have here?"

Pushing past Agnes, she stepped into the ring of fire. The flames licked her boots with no apparent effect, yet Martin knew they wouldn't be so harmless if he were to try the same thing. Jon stepped in front of Martin, straightening to his full height as he glared at the approaching Desolation Avatar.

"Elias finally let you out to play, then?" She didn't stop in front of them, instead starting to follow the curve of the circle. Her fingers trailed lazily in the high flames, the way one would play with tall grass in a field. Jon had to twist to keep facing her, keeping himself between Jude and Martin. Martin didn't resist, numb with fear. Then he remembered the other monster behind them and swung around to keep an eye on her, putting his back against Jon's. Agnes was not moving. She was simply looking wearily as the events unfolded, arms limp at her sides, and Martin reported his attention on Jude.

"And why would Elias have let me out? He's gone through so much trouble to put me under in the first place, after all," Jon answered, challenging.

Jude's smirk widened. "Oh, not Elias, then. Sure. Forget I said anything. How lucky you've managed to wake up before he got you himself, huh!" She hums, and her eyes fell on Martin, dark as coal. "This means he won't mind if we have some fun with the human, then. I'm sure he'll appreciate it if we bring him his blackened bones along with his precious Archivist. He does hate sharing, doesn't he? And the spell mentioned - a kiss. Right?"

Jon didn't answer this, glaring at the other Avatar with narrowed eyes. Martin caught a movement from the corner of his eyes - Agnes, startled. She was staring at him with a curious look on her face, a mix of interest and envy that made him feel as if he was in possession of a very precious and coveted treasure. Jude ambled closer, closer, until she was an arms-length away from Martin. Jon stuck to his side, though he thrummed with silent rage. The Desolation Avatar was much smaller than Martin, but when she looked him up and down he could tell she didn't see him as much more important than an ant under her boot.

"You're not my type," she told him with a mock pout. "But I do want to know what the fuss is all about. You brought the Archivist back to the world of the living with a simple kiss - I wonder what you could give me."

She reached up toward his face and he watched her, petrified - but before she could make contact, Jon's hand shot out and grabbed her arm. Jude hissed like an angry cat, glaring at Jon; her hand melted in Jon's grasp, reshaped itself into a fist around his wrist. Jon gasped, choked on air. A sob escaped his throat as he fell on his knees; Martin realized with horror that he could smell burning flesh. He cried out in alarm, but before he could move - to do what? What was he supposed to do against people who could melt the fat from your bones with a mere touch? - Agnes was up against him. Not quite touching him, but close enough he had to recoil in front of the intense heat that emanated from her.

"There's nothing you can do," she said, and her voice sounded impossibly sad. "Just let it happen."

Martin felt his heart sink when Jon started screaming, not quite covering Jude's gleeful laugh. He stared at Agnes pleadingly; the woman shook her head.

"Just let it happen."

 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr @[kalgalen](https://kalgalen.tumblr.com/)!!


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